Capsicoul: Drabble Me
by justicemuffins
Summary: Precisely what it says on the tin. Taken from a tumblr prompt post (see profile) where SOMEONE asked for each of the prompts for Capsicoul. Will occasionally cross over with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. Current prompt: "Nurse Me." Just because you're The Last Dragonborn doesn't mean you're invincible.
1. Amuse Me

"Did you hear the one about the fire at the circus?"

Until he hears this quietly posed question, Steve is under the impression that he is quite alone. The thing is, he is often under the impression that he is quite alone, only to have Phil prove him wrong time and again. Usually it's a delightful surprise, but now he finds he wishes his assumption of solitude had been correct. He's not in the mood for company and while he's sure that staring moodily out the window isn't exactly the most productive thing he can be doing, it's really all he _wants_ to do. And he wants to do it alone.

"It was intense."

It's not funny. It really, truly isn't. Or it wouldn't be if not for Phil's deadpan, completely and utterly serious delivery. But Steve doesn't want to laugh. When he's in a foul mood, he wants to be left to steep in it. And usually, attempts to cheer him up only serve to push him into an even darker mood, but this time he finds himself struggling to remain in his misery.

"Did you hear about the red ship and the blue ship that collided?" Phil asks in spite of his silence. "Both crews were marooned."

Steve feels his lips twitch and he struggles to keep his features neutral, if not hard and stern as they'd been before.

"Did you hear about what happened to the Italian Chef?" Phil asks. "He pasta way."

Steve stares down at his shoes, trying to focus on what had made him angry in the first place in the hopes of maintaining his composure.

"Did you hear about the Irishman who wanted to be a lawyer?" Phil asks. "He couldn't make it past the bar."

It's really getting to be too much. Try as he might, Steve feels a smile working its way onto his face. Any more of this and he's going to have to beg for mercy.

"What does Thor wear under his shorts?" Phil asks.

Steve's not sure he wants to know.

"Thunderpants."

That's the last straw. Steve doubles over, shoulders shaking with repressed laughter. Whatever anger he'd been trying to hold onto leaves him as laughter forces it out and away. When he manages to straighten up, he has tears in his eyes.

"Oh God, Phil, those are _awful_," he proclaims.

"And yet you're still laughing at them," Phil points out with a smile.

"They're not funny," Steve argues, chuckling.

"You're right. They're not," Phil agrees. "They're hilarious."

"Just because Thor laughs at them doesn't mean they're hilarious," Steve says with a shake of his head.

"Really? Because he got a real kick out of that thunderpants one," Phil says, tapping his chin thoughtfully. He shrugs offhandedly, dismissing the matter, before looking the other man in the eye. He claps Steve affectionately on the back. "Now, since you're looking a little less gloom and doom, why don't we take a trip to that bakery that has that apple cake you like so much?"

Steve quirks an eyebrow curiously, smile still fixed in place. "You're that intent on cheering me up that you'd leave in the middle of a workday to drive to a bakery?"

"Do I need to break out more jokes?" Phil asks. "Because I'm just getting started."

Steve laughs, slinging an arm around the shorter man's shoulder and hauling him in. He presses a quick kiss to the agent's temple.

"Alright, alright, I give in," he proclaims. "Mercy. Uncle. Whatever it takes to stop the jokes."

"You love them," Phil says, pulling away and tugging Steve along by the hand. "Admit it."

Steve shrugs, grinning from ear to ear as he allows himself to be lead towards the garage. "Only when you tell them."


	2. Break Me

"You need to calm your breathing," Steve tells him.

Between panting breaths, a laugh escapes him, the sound bordering on hysterical.

"Calm my breathing," Phil echoes, pacing back and forth. "Do I even need to? Do I even need to breathe?"

"Phil."

Steve's voice is gentle, quiet and maybe a little desperate. If Phil would bother to look, he might see the pained expression on the soldier's face. He might see the way Steve starts towards him, only to abort the movement time and again, as though he's afraid he might scare Phil away. And above all, he might see the crippling regret in the man's blue eyes.

"Please," Steve whispers.

"You _knew_," Phil spits. "You _all_ knew."

"I'm sorry," Steve says, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his confession. "If there had been any other way—"

"Don't give me that. Don't you _dare_ feed me that line," Phil snaps turning on his heel and jabbing an accusatory finger at Steve. "Any of you could have told me at any time. Damn Fury's orders, you could have told me. You should have told me. I mean… my _god_, Steve, do you have any idea how this feels?"

"No. I don't," Steve says truthfully. He takes a deep breath. "We always meant to tell you. Eventually, you were going to be told. But there was never a time for it. We wanted to wait until you were recovered, until you had readjusted… but that never really happened, did it? You just kept… spiraling. I tried to be there for you, as much as I could given the circumstances, but it wasn't enough."

Steve takes a cautious step towards him.

"We were discussing our options when Centipede took you," he says.

Phil flinches at the reminder, turns away and folds his arms tightly over his chest. No, no, he doesn't want to talk about this. He doesn't want to talk about the things they'd done to him, doesn't want to be reminded.

"And at that point it was too late," Steve continues. "With what they did to you, of course you found out. And now none of us can take that back. You have no reason to, but I wish you'd believe me when I say that I would do anything to change it. If I could take it all back, I would, no matter the price."

Phil shakes his head, feeling a lump work its way up his throat. He swallows thickly, feeling tears pricking at his eyes and only growing more desolate for the fact.

"You've watched me struggle with this for months," Phil says, his voice cracking despite his attempts to keep it level. "You've consoled me when I've woken screaming from nightmares, held me until I calmed down. You've seen me at my lowest, have been there for me at every point of self-loathing and doubt and uncertainty. By all accounts you've been… you've been…"

He gropes blindly for the wall, his hand shaking as he tries to steady himself.

"And all that time, you knew," he chokes out. "You just let me go on tormenting myself when you could have ended all of that at any time. Every single one of the fears I confided in you and the whole time you knew I wasn't… that I'm… I'm not real."

He feels hot tears sliding down his cheeks. Hearing himself say it feels like the final nail in the coffin and his breath leaves him in a great, whooshing exhale as his knees give out. Phil Coulson died and whatever had been left they'd just… downloaded into this body. This LMD. And then they'd hidden it from him. Fury, Hill, Sitwell, the Avengers… hell, even his supposed hand-picked team had known the truth. He'd allowed himself to get close to Steve, for Steve to get close to him, never suspecting a thing. It never occurred to him that the man sharing a bed with him might be lying to him. And now he has to wonder… is there anything about him that's real?

"None of it was real. None of it," he sobs.

He feels Steve's hands on his shoulders and he pushes at the other man frantically.

"Don't touch me," he pleads. "I can't… I can't…"

"It _was_ real," Steve says insistently. He reaches out, his hands framing the sides of Phil's face and forcing the agent to look at him. "It _is_ real. _You_ are real, Phil, please… I never meant to hurt you like this. I'm not asking for forgiveness, I know I have no right to do that, but despite whatever I've kept from you, I need you to know that I never faked my feelings for you. It wasn't for show, it wasn't on Fury's orders and it wasn't part of keeping you in the dark. I love you, Phil. Just the way you are, no matter what."

"And you expect me to believe that?" Phil asks.

Steve opens his mouth and closes it.

"I expect you to believe whatever you think is worth believing," he says after a minute.

"I don't know what's worth believing," Phil confesses. "How am I supposed to trust you? Any of you?"

"I don't know," Steve admits in a whisper.

"Please let go," Phil says with a great, shaky inhale.

Steve complies, lowering his hands and sitting back on his heels. He watches Phil sag against the wall, head hanging low and shoulders quivering, and he has to resist every urge to reach out, to console, to comfort. It's not his place anymore.

Just outside this room there are Avengers and S.H.I.E.L.D. agents alike, trying to give them space but unable to stay away. Later Steve will have to consider what to do about them, but right now, the only thing he can focus on is the broken, desolate man before him. He can't promise to fix this, can't say that he'll repair the things he's broken or the damage Phil's taken, but he can try.

If Phil lets him, he can try.


	3. Call Me

It's not often they go out to celebrate like this, so needless to say, the team is enjoying themselves. The laughs are as plentiful as the alcohol—and maybe there's a little _too_ much of that—and even the more stoic of them cracks a smile now and then. Phil is the first of them to call it quits, citing too much alcohol and not enough sleep.

"Aw, come on, the birthday boy can't ditch his own party!" Skye protests.

"The birthday boy wasn't expecting a surprise party and hasn't slept in almost two days," Phil answers with a patient smile.

"Just one more drink, sir?" Fitz prods. "It's not every day you turn fifty, after all."

"Lord, don't remind me," Phil says with a laugh and a shake of his head. He glances once around the table at each of them, eyes crinkling fondly, before he pushes away from the table. "Thank you, all of you. I can't tell you how much I appreciate this."

"Happy birthday, sir," Ward says, grinning and raising his glass.

"And many happy returns!" Simmons adds, much to the agreement of the table.

It takes him several more attempts, but eventually he does manage to free himself from the group and retreats to one of the rooms they'd booked for the weekend—but not before ensuring they wouldn't stop on his account. Yes, it was originally a party they'd planned for his birthday, but how often did they all get to let loose like this? So he slips away once he's certain they'll keep the good mood alive in his absence.

And they do. That is, until someone crashes their party. About an hour after Phil leaves, they get an unexpected visitor.

"Don't tell me Phil's gone to bed already."

Skye hears the voice and in conjunction sees wide eyes across the table from her. Simmons chokes on her champagne, her coughing turning her already pink cheeks even pinker. May raises an eyebrow, sipping from her glass and regarding the newcomer with some interest.

"Funny," she says. "Didn't see you on the guest list."

Skye twists in her seat, careful not to let her jaw hit the floor when she gets an eyeful of who May is speaking to.

"Holy shit, you're Captain America," she blurts.

"I am, but most of my friends just call me 'Steve,'" he says with a smile. He looks at each of the gathered faces in turn. "Judging by your faces, I'm guessing Phil didn't mention me."

"Mention that you would be coming to his birthday party that he didn't know about? No, he didn't mention that," Ward says.

Steve actually laughs at that.

"Did you really think you had him fooled?" he questions.

"You mean he wasn't surprised?" Simmons asks, sounding crushed by the realization.

"I'm not saying he didn't appreciate it. Believe me, he was very touched," Steve says. "It's just, well… he's a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent."

"Point taken," Ward concedes.

"…but you're _Captain America_," Skye emphasizes.

"Yeah," Steve says slowly. He shifts on his feet. "Could you tell me what room he's in?"

"213," May says easily.

"Thank you," he answers. "Sorry for the hurried introduction, I just want to make sure I see him before he falls asleep. If you don't mind, we can discuss this later."

There's a general murmur of agreement before they collectively watch him leave the bar in the direction of the elevator. Following, there's a moment of silence where they all look to each other questioningly… before turning their gaze on May.

"Coulson's seeing Rogers," May says, pouring herself more champagne.

"And you didn't think that was _something we might like to know_?" Skye demands.

May shrugs. "Coulson planned to get around to telling all of you, he just told me first. There haven't been many opportune moments to sit down and talk about it since then."

"I thought none of the Avengers had clearance to know," Ward points out.

"Rogers and Romanoff found out," May answers. "As for the others, Fury's not allowing it just yet."

"Well," Fitz says, clearing his throat, "I suppose it's good to know Agent Coulson is doing something in his spare time."

Skye and Simmons share a look before bursting into laughter. Fitz looks in confusion from the two women over to May and Ward who are wearing matching smirks.

"What? What is it, what have I said?" he asks in bewilderment.

"Poor choice of words," Ward says, taking pity on him.

Fitz stares before the other man's meaning sinks in and he shrugs as far into his seat as humanly possible. Well, maybe there's enough champagne left for him to not regret having said that.

* * *

Phil snorts and rolls over when he hears a knock at the door. He really, really would prefer to just stay in bed. Steve's arm slides across his lower back and he feels fingers caressing his side. Lips press to his shoulder, kissing a line towards the back of his neck.

"Probably your team," Steve hums against his skin. "Want me to get it?"

Phil sighs into his pillow. The knocking persists.

"No, I'll get it," he says.

He pushes himself up onto his elbows and leans over to press a quick kiss to Steve's lips before he rolls out of bed. He steps into his pajama pants and picks up his t-shirt off the floor on his way to the hotel room door. He pulls hit on, taking a brief minute to compose himself before unlatching and opening the door. Skye is on the other side, her fist poised for another series of knocks, but at the sight of him she lowers her hand.

"Lucy, you got some 'splainin' to do," she says in about the poorest Ricky Ricardo impression he's ever heard. And he's heard some bad ones. At his raised eyebrow, she drops the act and shoves her hands in her pockets. "Right. Well, you know, we were all going to go get some breakfast and everyone's asking for you… and Steve, if he wants to join us. But if you'd rather sleep in, we'd get it."

"I think breakfast sounds like a great idea," Steve says, appearing at his shoulder. "I'm starving. And I know you are, too, don't deny it."

Phil snorts and shakes his head with a laugh. Leave it to Steve to break the ice.

"Alright. You take the shower first," he says.

Steve nods, waving to Skye before disappearing into the bathroom. Phil waits a moment, lingering in the open doorway with Skye until he hears the water running.

"I meant to tell all of you—"

"Hey, no, that's cool. It's your business," Skye says honestly. "But we're all cool with it. So you know. I mean… he's _Captain America_."

"Yeah, I noticed," Phil says with a chuckle.

"I'm just saying, if he's treating you right and he makes you happy, don't be weird about inviting him to come with us once in a while," Skye says.

"I'll keep that in mind," Phil says.

He doesn't say much, but he's grateful, immensely so. All the same, he's surprised when she throws her arms around his neck in a crushing hug.

"Happy birthday, A.C.," Skye says, kissing his check before letting him go. "We'll see you in the lobby."

He waves as she departs and closes the door behind him. Just as he passes by the bathroom, the door opens and Steve pokes his head out, dripping wet and sporting a grin from ear to ear.

"So are you going to stand there or are you going to get in here with me?" he asks.

"Are you seriously using the conserving water technique on me?" Phil asks, laughing.

"We'll get done twice as fast," Steve says. "Don't want to keep them all waiting, right? Now come on, let's hurry up so I can meet your team."

(In the end, it takes them twice as long, but no one's complaining.)


	4. Drink Me

"So you really think this'll work?" Steve asks, peering dubiously into his glass.

"Well, your accelerated metabolism means that your body burns off alcohol before you feel any effects," Bruce begins. "Thor's body doesn't work all that differently when it comes to anything we have here on Earth, but Asgardian mead seems to do the trick for him. So, it stands to reason that it just may be enough to, for lack of a better term, cheat the system."

"What about side effects?" Phil asks, arms folded over his chest. "Is there a chance of alcohol poisoning?"

"I highly doubt it," Bruce assures him. "And on the off chance that there should be any negative ramifications, well… I'm here."

"Fear not, Son of Coul," Thor says, slapping him fondly on the back. "No harm will come to him."

"Nothing beyond a bad hangover, right?" Tony says, looking delighted by the possibility.

"Aye, there is that," Thor agrees.

"Well, I'm certainly willing to give it a try," Steve says.

"I've got the table set up, let's get this party going already," Clint says, ushering them over.

It's a simple game of Kings, nothing out of the ordinary. There are a few rounds of "Never Have I Ever"—in which they discover a few interesting details about each other's personal lived—and "Categories" before they finally reach their first "Waterfall." That's when things get interesting. Tony, who's seated to Steve's right, just keeps on chugging away, even after Clint stops, which means Steve and Phil have to continue as well. It goes on until all three of them drain their glasses and Tony tosses his against the far wall triumphantly, earning an approving laugh from Thor.

"That was rude," Phil says.

"Feeling a little tipsy, agent?" Tony teases.

"Not in the slightest," Phil answers, rising to refill his glass.

"What about you, Spangles?" Tony asks.

"I'm kind of… Actually, I think it might be working," Steve proclaims. "I feel tingly."

"Tingly's good," Natasha says with a nod. "Looks like we're making progress."

"When did this become a science experiment?" Steve wonders aloud.

"The second Bruce and Tony got involved," Pepper says, rolling her eyes.

"Hey, how does that Asgardian Mead taste, anyway?" Clint wonders.

This leads to everyone deciding to try a glass of it which leads to very sudden, very unexpected inebriation.

"Wow. Wow, that… wow, Thor, that's some stuff," Clint says, putting down his empty glass.

"Yes, it's… impressive," Phil admits, loosening his tie.

Tony sniggers, refilling his glass. "Now you're drunk."

"No, I'm just approaching drunk," Phil protests. "Not drunk yet."

"I'm… oh," Steve says, swaying slightly where he sits. "I think it's kicking in."

Another glass later and Steve's definitely feeling the effects. It's like nothing he's felt since before the serum. Really, he'd almost forgotten what it was like to be drunk. He's aware they're still playing the game, but they seem to keep detouring from it and just flat-out drinking instead. Watching Phil through the whole thing, Steve has to say he kind of likes the way alcohol loosens Phil up. He's slumps in his seat, his expression soft and his cheeks pleasantly pink as his hand gently massages Steve's thigh. Not to mention the way Phil begins nuzzling his neck is absolutely distracting in the worst kind of way.

"Feeling okay?" Phil asks him.

"Mmhmm," Steve hums contentedly.

He's feeling warm, drowsy. His whole body's kind of tingly, but his head's swimming in the most pleasant way he could possibly imagine.

"Not overdoing it?" Phil presses.

"Nah," Steve answers. He reaches up and pulls the agent's tie away, clumsily undoing the top button so he can get at the shorter man's throat. He nibbles and sucks at the exposed flesh, a pleased hum escaping him at Phil's obvious enjoyment of his attention. "You're drunk."

"Mm. Little bit," Phil answers, nuzzling his temple.

"I like you like this," Steve slurs. His rests a hand on Phil's thigh, his touch creeping upward until he's cupping him through his slacks. "I want to make love to you."

Steve's head snaps up at the chorus of wolf whistles because oh, yes, they're not back at Phil's apartment, they're still here with all of their friends. Still, he's surprised by Phil's response.

"Oh, fuck off, Stark," the agent snorts.

"You said a bad word!" Tony says, pointing an accusatory finger at him.

"He swears a fuck-ton when he's drunk," Clint clarifies, eyeballing his empty glass.

"Watch your fucking mouth, Barton," Phil warns him.

"Yessir," Clint says, offering him a wonky salute.

"Well, I think this experiment was a success," Bruce declares, rising from his seat. "And since it's pretty late, I think we should call it quits. I'll call you two a cab."

"Thanks, Bruce," Steve says, slouching in his seat and letting his eyes drift shut.

"You could always stay here," Tony offers.

"No. We're not getting into this again," Pepper declares. "Just let them go home, Tony. Let them live their lives. Unless both of you are too drunk. Because I don't want to be worrying over whether or not you made it home safely."

"We'll be fine," Phil assures her. "I'll text when we get in."

"You've fared rather well, for humans," Thor says, looking upon all of them with fond eyes.

"Thor, are you still sober?" Natasha inquires, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"Of course. Surely you didn't think a little mead would be enough to do the job?" Thor answers with a deep chuckle. "On Asgard we have hosted celebrations for as long as two or three weeks. A few hours of imbibing are hardly enough to affect me."

"But Nat's drunk… and she's _Russian_," Clint says slowly. "Phil's drunk and he's… well, he's Phil, for Chrissakes. You're cheating or something."

"No cheating has occurred, I assure you," Thor says. "But it seems our good captain is feeling the ieffects more fully than he'd let on."

"I'm okay!" Steve says, a little too loudly. "'m fine."

"Which is our cue to call it a night," Phil declares. "It's been… fun, thank you."

* * *

"I don't remember much after that," Steve confesses.

"I'm not surprised," Phil answers, placing a cool cloth on the back of his neck.

"God, I'd forgotten about the hangovers," Steve grumbles. "…at least I'm not throwing up."

"You took are of most of that last night," Phil tells him.

"I did?" Steve asks. He scrubs a hand over his face. "I wasn't… sick on you, was I?"

"Only once or twice," Phil says with a shrug.

Steve groans loudly, mortification settling like a stone in his stomach. He doesn't remember anything at all about the previous night past what he'd told Phil, but the idea that he'd thrown up all over his boyfriend after groping him in front of their friends and proclaiming he'd like to make love to him, well… there aren't many experiences he can claim have been more regretful in his life.

"It's not a big deal," Phil assure him, leaning over to kiss his temple. "Try to sleep it off, alright? Bruce said you should be fine by the end of the day."

"How come you're not hung over?" Steve mumbles.

"Oh, I don't get hangovers," Phil informs him. "No one in my family does."

"Lucky you," Steve snorts.

Phil rubs his back soothingly.

"How about we have a drink together at the end of the week? Just the two of us," Phil says quietly. "Nothing to overdo it, just enough to get a little tipsy while we have a bit of dinner and I can take you up on that offer from last night for dessert."

Steve knows just what the agent's hinting at. It's hard not to after he'd basically told the man he wanted to have sex while in front of all their friends.

"I was going to ask you to never let me drink again, but with an offer like that, I have to say that I've changed my mind," Steve murmurs.

"I thought you might," Phil chuckles.


	5. Enamor Me

Steve groans when he hears the whistle and begrudgingly brings himself to a halt. He turns to find the referee, Phil Coulson, pointing at him.

"Cross-checking, two minutes," Phil says.

"Come on, ref," he sighs.

"Sorry, Captain, a penalty's a penalty," Phil answers. "Have a seat."

He whacks his stick against the boards in agitation, but doesn't argue. It's not going to do him any good. Steve might be one of the cleanest players in the league, but Phil has earned his own reputation as a no-nonsense referee with a keen eye. In fact, Steve's pretty sure Commissioner Fury has more than once referred to the man as his "one good eye" in the league.

From what Steve has seen of the man, he knows him to be fair and impartial. This being despite the fact that it's not much of a secret that the guy is something of a fan of Steve's. In fact, the first time they'd met, the official had seemed nervous—a stark contrast to his serious on-ice demeanor. Since then, though, well… they've warmed up to each other.

When the penalty timer runs down, Steve wastes no time and explodes out of the penalty box, making a mad dash to join the fray. On the way he taps the back of Phil's skates with his stick and, had he been looking, he would have seen a small, pleased smile in return. But there's hockey to be played, and play it he does.

* * *

"I was about to send in a search party."

Phil looks up from his keys to find a certain someone leaning against his driver's side door. Steve Rogers flashes him a bright smile and a casual salute as he stops dead in his tracks. Phil shivers—and not just because of the cold.

Everyone knows he's a fan of the Avengers Captain, but you can't really blame him. Steve was a talent that Phil had been following since the man's college days. It seemed the whole nation had eyes for the rising star and teams from all around were gearing up to offer him a place on their team. But despite all those handsome offers, the young man had chosen to enlist in the military alongside his two best friends, looking to "just do his part," as he put it.

He did that and more, earning himself the rank of Captain before finally returning home, although without Bucky Barnes at his side. It was a year before Commissioner Fury was able to convince him to start skating again. The NHL was putting together a new team and they were looking for some new faces. Long story short, the Avengers were assembled as one of the most interesting and diverse teams to date, including the groundbreaking addition of female superstar Natasha Romanoff. Steve and Phil had come together on that front, lobbying hard for her inclusion, and although she remains the only female in the league, it's a foot in the door for other female athletes.

All this has garnered a healthy amount of respect from Phil. Still, he keeps himself professional at all times and, unless he's told anyone face-to-face, no one would suspect that he's harboring more than just respect.

"Shouldn't you be with your team?" Phil asks.

"Well, it's not like we have to fly out anywhere tomorrow," Steve says with a shrug. "We don't have another game for three days and it's another Home game, so… I've got some free time."

"And you thought you'd spend it in a nearly empty parking lot in five below temperatures?" Phil presses.

Steve chuckles and rubs the back of his neck. "Well, to be fair, I kinda thought you'd be out before now."

"Something you wanted to discuss, then," Phil deduces, unlocking his car from the remote in his hand.

"Something I'd like to ask," Steve corrects him. "Are you busy?"

"No," Phil answers. "Why don't you get in the passenger's side and warm up for a minute."

He's surprised when Steve agrees to the suggestion. At the satisfied sigh he hears from the other man, he's glad he had the presence of mind to start his car while he was still a ways off. Why the captain couldn't have just phoned him or at the very least waited in his own car with the heat on is beyond Phil.

"So, I was thinking I hadn't seen much of you since we formed the team," Steve begins. "Outside of when you're busy sticking me in the sin bin."

"You earned the penalty, Rogers, you know it," Phil says with a cluck of his tongue.

"I know, I know," Steve says with a smile. "Anyway, what I'm getting at is that I really don't get a chance to see you anymore. I'd like to change that."

"I'm not sure I follow," Phil confesses.

"I was wondering if you might like to have a drink with me sometime," Steve says.

Phil can only stare.

"You'd like to have a drink," he echoes. "With me."

"Yeah. You know… like a date?" Steve fishes, beginning to look uncertain.

"I'm…"

Phil pauses, looking out the window and then back to Steve as he tries to wrap his mind around the idea. Steve Rogers is in his car, had waited outside freezing his ass off for god knows how long, to ask him out on a date.

"I'm not sure that would be appropriate," Phil says slowly. "With our positions."

Steve licks his lips.

"Look, if I've made an incorrect assumption that you were—"

"I am," Phil says quickly, cutting him off. "To be honest, I hadn't thought you were."

"You remember a while back, Chara and I were doing some work with You Can Play? Well, it's a little more personal for me," Steve says quietly. "I don't talk about it publicly, but, you know, maybe it would be better if I did."

"So people stop assuming you and Romanoff are sleeping together?" Phil asks.

"That would be one benefit," Steve answers with a smile. He ducks his head. "So… I take it you're not interested, then."

"I'm beyond interested," Phil chuckles. "It's just… you're a player. I'm an official. There would be talk of bias. There would be talk beyond that."

"I don't care," Steve says. "The things people might say about me don't bother me."

"I could lose my job," Phil continues. "Who would want an official who sleeps with the players?"

"Who said anything about sleeping with me?" Steve says with raised eyebrows.

Phil opens his mouth and shuts it almost immediately. He can feel his face heating up. It's like their first meeting all over again; he's gone and stuck his foot in his mouth. He's about to start spouting apologies when Steve grins at him and claps him on the shoulder.

"I'm teasing," he says.

Phil huffs and shrugs his hand off. "God, I wish I could give you penalties off the ice, too."

"Yeah?" Steve asks.

He's leaning across the divide and his eyes are too goddamn blue to be fair and Phil's only human, really. He takes a deep breath.

"One drink," he says. "And we'll see how it goes. We have to be discreet."

"That's all I'm asking," Steve says. "That, and you have to call me Steve."

"Steve. Right," Phil says, clearing his throat. "First names, then. When do you want to meet?"

"I was thinking now, actually," Steve says, looking a little abashed by the admission.

"Now. Now's good," Phil agrees, nodding quickly.

* * *

Steve taps the back of Phil's skates with his stick, grabbing the other man's attention.

"I thought you wanted to be discreet?" he asks, his tone teasing.

"I do," Phil answers with raised eyebrows.

"Really? Flowers at my spot in the locker room are your idea of discreet?" Steve goes on, grinning from ear to ear.

Phil rolls his eyes. "It's not like anyone would know who they're from. Give me some credit."

"Okay, but now I've got Tony going on about my 'secret admirer.' You _know_ he's going to find out," Steve says.

"Stark's persistent, I'll give him that, but so long as we're careful we'll be fine," Phil answers. He claps Steve on the back. "Commercial break's over. Back to work."

* * *

Phil eyes the empty rink dubiously.

"And you accuse me of lacking discretion," he says.

"No one's here," Steve assures him. "No one's _going_ to be here. Believe me, I made sure."

"Someone might still see. Maintenance workers, security, if there are cameras on…" Phil rattles.

"We can always do something else," Steve offers. "We probably spend enough time on the ice anyway, right?"

Phil stares out across the empty rink. It's not that this isn't stupidly romantic—it is—or that he doesn't go for that sort of thing—he does—it's just that… the risks involved are totaling more than he can count. A very large part of him feels badly for that; it must seem to Steve that's he's gone into this whole thing with clenched teeth for all the fuss he's put up. But it's just the politics of the situation. No, Phil doesn't have any qualms about being gay and out, but in a situation like this he knows they're breaking every rule in the book. Strangely, that doesn't seem to bother Steve.

"No, no, this is great," he says, offering a small smile. He takes the man's offered hand and steps onto the ice. He has to try his utmost not to laugh when the captain takes hold of both his hands and begins skating backwards around the rink, taking Phil right along with him. "I have to say, it's been a long time since someone's skated me around a rink like this."

"People say I'm a little too old fashioned," Steve says, managing to look somewhat embarrassed by the admission. "Maybe they're right."

Phil listens to the sound of their skates on the ice, oddly loud in the empty arena, and squeezes the hands holding his.

"To be honest, I could use a little old fashioned," he says softly.

The self-conscious, but infinitely pleased smile he gets in return is so very unlike the persona the man has on the ice. This isn't Captain Rogers, number four, star forward for the Avengers and one of the top players in the league. This isn't even the soldier who had gone off to war. This is just Steve, just plain old Steve, and Phil can't help but feel privileged to have been allowed to see him like this.

"You should smile like that more often."

The other man's voice breaks his thoughts.

"I'm sorry?" Phil says.

"You were smiling," Steve says. "Just now. I don't know what about, but it was… different. Relaxed. It looks good on you."

Phil wonders if it would be too cliché to say that seeing Steve smile is the cause of his own.

It turns out it isn't.

* * *

"Odinson, Laufeyson, break it up," Phil barks.

He squeezes between the estranged brothers, pushing at both their chests in an effort to separate them. But Loki continues to chirp and Thor continues to grab at him and they're really not getting anywhere at all. In fact, both teams seem to be in the mood to clear the benches and Phil prays to whatever deity is listening that they all manage to keep in mind that they're supposed to be professionals and there are only four officials on the ice to deal with all of them.

"Laufeyson, you're already looking at an instigator, do yourself a favor and don't dig yourself a deeper hole," Phil admonishes.

The two shake separate, still glaring daggers at one another as Phil grips Thor's bicep and begins steering him away.

"You would have done better to let us fight," Thor informs him as they wade through the still-grappling teams.

"I'd prefer not to have a bloodbath on my hands," Phil says, letting go. "You're all wound tight enough as it is, we don't need to cart anyone off the ice in a stretcher."

Apparently, Phil speaks too soon, in this case. He feels the blow to his head almost in conjunction with the sensation of hitting the ice. He can't see anything, but there's shouting and the sudden roar of the crowd like a dull throb in the back of his head. There's a loud ringing drowning anything else out, and then, mercifully, nothing.

* * *

Based on how he feels when consciousness returns to him, Phil expects to see a hospital room when he wakes. What he does _not_ expect to see is a hospital room crammed full of sleeping hockey players.

"There wasn't anyone to contact," a voice says softly to his left. "And we couldn't just leave you alone."

Phil winces as he turns his head, squinting even against the dim lights. Steve offers what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile, but comes across as anything but with the shiner, split lip and stitches he's sporting.

"What happened?" Phil mumbles.

"Thor's brother wasn't happy with the fact that Thor hadn't fought him, so he decided to fix that. You got in the way," Steve explains.

"Mmn. And after that?" Phil asks.

"I… lost my temper," Steve says slowly, looking down.

"Discreet," Phil murmurs. "Supposed to be discreet."

"You weren't moving. You hit the ice and you weren't moving. It hardly looked like you were _breathing_," Steve says, sounding frustrated. "Discreet wasn't an option when they had to cart you off the ice and fly you over here."

From what it sounds like, Steve had gone and done the stupidly valiant thing of wailing on another player in defense of his honor… or something. He's having a hard time stringing thoughts together, if he's being honest.

"It was kind of what we needed, though. That hit on you cleared the benches," Steve goes on to say. "Really spurred the guys on."

"You won?" Phil questions.

"Come from behind win," Steve says proudly. He clears his throat, looking a little anxious. "I have a hearing at the end of the week. Suspended until then."

Phil sighs loudly, letting his eyes slip shut. "Steve."

"I know, I know. I'm sorry," Steve says, laying a hand atop his. "But look at the bright side: I'll have a lot of free time to spend with you while you recover."

"This wasn't some sort of attempt to impress me, was it?" Phil asks.

"No, it wasn't to impress you," Steve answers. Phil can practically hear the smile in his voice. "I care about you. Laufeyson crossed the line and I couldn't stand by and do nothing. I couldn't ride with you to the hospital, couldn't convince them to let me into your room without revealing our relation to each other… but I could be an Avenger."

Phil hums quietly. He understands. But he wonders… will anyone suspect them after this? Will people wonder why Steve Rogers has decided to camp out in his hospital room?

"So I'm thinking," comes Steve's voice, quiet and nearly at his ear, "that when they discharge you, I take you back to your place and we spend the next couple of days just holed up in your apartment. Get the Netflix queue going, I'll cook us something for dinner. Later I'm going to take you to bed and if you want to keep watching whatever we have going, that's fine, and if not, well, I'm sure we can find something else to do."

"You're a keeper," Phil mumbles.

"Promise?"

"Mmm."

There's a kiss to his cheek and a quiet command to rest and he doesn't fight it. There will be time later to consider the negative ramifications of recent events, but for the time being he's fine with this strange little romance continuing on its merry way.


	6. Fight Me

"He's not himself right now," Phil says, gripping his forearm. "You have to go easy on him."

Steve hurriedly shoves Phil behind him, shielding them both from the attack. He doesn't need to be told twice; Grant Ward is an agent, an ally and, more importantly, a member of Phil's team. What's happening now isn't his fault and certainly not something he wants, but how were they to know that finding that Asgardian artifact would ignite the lingering effects of the Berserker Staff?

"Any luck finding the…"

"Night Night Pistol."

"I'm not calling it that," Steve grunts, using his shield to shove Grant away and doing so hard enough that the man staggers.

"That's its name," Phil says. "And no, not yet."

"Any chance you can expedite that process?" Steve inquires, shoving Grant back again. "There's only so long we can keep pushing him back."

"Yes, well, not all of us are super soldiers and being picked up and thrown across a room by a guy on some Asgardian power trip actually _hurts_," Phil grouses. "It's hard to look when there's two of everything."

"Wait, what? How badly were you—"

His moment of distraction costs them both as Grant comes charging towards them, and as Steve tries to shove him away again, he finds himself caught. The agent grabs his wrist and drags him forward before flipping him. Phil really hadn't been kidding when he'd said the effects of the Berserker Staff effectively caused Grant to Hulk out because right now Steve is airborne, limbs flailing as he sails into a pile of debris. More falls on top of him with his impact and he's forced to dig his way out.

When he does, he can see the two agents squared off; Grant is stalking towards Phil with fire in his eyes as Phil attempts to talk him down. Phil has a gun. He could use it. But he won't. Because using that gun means injuring a member of his team, and he won't have it. But that doesn't mean Steve will just let this play out. With a grunt, he pulls himself free of the debris and tugs his shield out with him. Just as Phil's back hits the wall behind him, Steve hurls his shield.

It's enough to stop Grant as it whizzes by between them, but what really catches Steve's attention is Phil. The older agent drops to a crouch, grabs what can only be the Night Night Pistol off the floor, aims and fires point blank at Grant's chest. The younger agent jerks with the blow before swaying on his feet and toppling forward, landing with a heavy thud. Steve hurries forward as Phil kneels at his teammate's side.

"He down for the count?" Steve asks, kneeling beside Phil.

"Should be," Phil murmurs.

They roll the young man onto his back and Phil checks his pulse before laying a hand on Grant's forehead. He's pale, clammy to the touch and groaning faintly. Ordinarily a single round from the Night Night Pistol would put anyone out of commission, but given the circumstances, it's a little more understandable that he's not at black-out levels of unconsciousness.

"Grant, can you hear me?" Phil asks.

The agent groans faintly, eyelids fluttering. The worried from on Phil's face smooths out and he sighs in relief, patting his subordinate on the chest.

"You're alright. I had to use a round from the Night Night Pistol on you, but you're going to be fine. Captain Rogers and I are going to take you back to the Bus and Jemma's going to patch you up," Phil says. "It's alright to sleep, don't fight it."

Grant murmurs something unintelligible before apparently taking Phil's advice and allowing the effects of the round to take over. That done, Phil sighs and rocks back on his heels—before falling flat on his ass. Steve looks over at him, clucking his tongue.

"You said you were fine," he says in a disapproving tone.

"I _am_ fine," Phil snorts. "Now, help me get him up."

"Don't bother, I have him," Steve responds.

He scoops Grant up easily enough, hefting him over his shoulder before standing and offering Phil his hand. The agent complies, allowing the soldier to tug him upright, but makes a dissatisfied noise when a guiding hand is left on his shoulder.

"Stop fussing," Phil says.

"I'm not fussing," Steve argues as they start walking. "You're practically cross-eyed."

"You're exaggerating. Focus on my agent, please," Phil says, failing to walk a straight line all the same.

"No. You know what?"

Later, when Steve thinks back on the scene, he'll laugh at the noise Phil makes as he's scooped up and tossed over Steve's other shoulder. The agent squirms, doing his best to convince Steve to put him down, but the soldier isn't having any of it.

"Relax. The fight's over, and you're a little banged up, so I'm just making sure you get back to your team safely," Steve assures him, patting him on the rear.

"The fight may be over, but if you don't put me down I'll be looking to start another one," Phil says moodily.

Considering Phil's fights usually involve whipping his ass at Scrabble and offering hot chocolate as a consolation prize, Steve's willing to take his chances.


	7. Get Me

Jemma can't say she's seen Phil this angry before. Even remembering how cross he'd been when she'd jumped out of the Bus in an attempt to save them doesn't seem to compare to what she's seeing now. The thing of it is, it's all in the subtleties. It's in the fact that he appears to be so utterly calm when, in fact, making eye contact with him causes her insides wither.

"Simmons, what's his status?"

If his words were any sharper, she could have cut herself on them. He's not angry at her, no, she knows this, but she can't help but flinch all the same. She turns her eyes back to her patient.

Steve Rogers had gone missing nearly a month ago after he and Clint Barton had been separated during a mission. They recovered Clint two weeks back and, thankfully, he's recovering steadily. Unfortunately, he could only offer so much on Steve's potential whereabouts. Unsurprisingly, Phil has been pushing continually in an effort to make sure both of them are found and while Clint's rescue had done a great deal to ease some of his worry, the fact that Steve had still been missing and the people responsible for Clint's condition had gone unpunished thus far meant their team leader was wound particularly tight.

The joint effort between S.H.I.E.L.D. and the Avengers had finally paid off when they got a few different leads on Steve's whereabouts. Phil had taken them to pursue this one, while the Avengers followed up on the second. Jemma isn't sure if it's better or worse that they were the ones to find him.

"Heavily sedated, pulse weaker than I would care for, but steady," Jemma rattles off, doing a quick, precursory examination. "Wounds in various stages of healing, but nothing life threatening."

"And what about these machines?" Phil asks, gesturing to the various tubes and wires connecting Steve to medical equipment. "Can they be safely removed?"

"I believe so, sir, but should we do that, he'll be in quite a lot of pain when he awakes," Jemma points out.

They both look up at the sound of shouting outside the room. Phil looks back to her.

"I'm going to go take care of that. I want him off these machines by the time I'm back," he says.

"But sir—"

"_Do it_," he says, his voice raised in agitation.

She nods her head in acceptance and watches him stalk off towards the doors. With the sound of gunshots and screams and explosions as her soundtrack, she does away with the many tubes and wires as quickly as safety will allow. He struggles against the ventilator as she removes it and she hushes him, carding gentle fingers through sweat drenched hair. At last, he's free from them entirely and beginning to regain consciousness.

At just that moment, Phil re-enters the room. Jemma feels a spike of panic when she sees the sheer amount of blood soaked into his clothes, but he waves her off when she attempts to find any injuries.

"It's not mine," he says by way of clarification.

"Oh. That's… good," Jemma responds.

Really, though, the statement isn't as reassuring as he likely thinks it was.

"How is he?" Phil asks, quickly moving to the soldier's side.

"Slowly beginning to regain consciousness," Jemma answers. "His body works off pain killers and sedatives at a much faster rate than ours do, so I wouldn't be surprised if he wakes in the next minute or so."

"And how much pain will he be in?" Phil asks, looking around the room for something.

"It's difficult to say," Jemma admits. "Regardless of personal tolerance, from what I can see that's been done to him, anyone would be in an alarming amount of pain."

"Right," Phil answers distractedly, pushing over a wheelchair. "Then we'll just have to get him out of here as quickly as possible."

"Sir, I think I should mention…" Jemma says, biting on her lower lip worriedly. "It seems to me that what they were doing here was testing his pain tolerance and healing capabilities. I'm not sure how many injuries may have been inflicted in the past month that he's already healed from."

"I understand," Phil says, pulling sheets from a nearby cabinet. He pauses, as though remembering something and touches her shoulder as he nears. "Thank you."

Jemma shakes her head. "Not necessary."

He'll have a talk with her later, but for now they need to get out. Steve is coming round, groaning now and again as he works his way towards lucidity. Jemma watches, feeling like an outside observer to something private, something intimate that isn't meant for her eyes. But she resists the urge to shy away. There's something to be said about the way Phil's eyes soften when Steve opens his, or the way he leans in to speak to him in quiet, reassuring tones.

"You've got red on you," Steve mumbles.

Phil gives the man on the table a small smile packed to the brim with unimaginable relief and crushing concern. And perhaps he's a little flustered by the fact that Steve's first words have to be a movie quote.

"I guess so," Phil agrees. "Are you in a lot of pain?"

"Bit, yeah," Steve answers, eyes sliding shut. "Clint…?"

"Picked him up two weeks ago. He's doing better," Phil tells him. For a moment, Jemma sees him overcome with what she can only guess is guilt. "I'm sorry we weren't able to get to you sooner."

Steve turns his head, fumbles for Phil's hand. "Not your fault."

Phil sighs and shakes his head, unwilling to forgive himself as readily as Steve does. He gives in and allows himself a brief moment of unprofessional behavior, wherein he places a kiss on the soldier's forehead and smooths back his hair.

"Come on, let's get you sitting up. Agent Simmons and I are going to get you out of here,"

"Simmons…?" Steve mumbles as Phil helps him sit up.

"Yes, right here, Captain," Jemma says, reaching out to help in the process.

Steve screws his eyes shut as they pull him upright, his jaw clenched as he breathes heavily. The pain is setting in as the sedatives rapidly wear off. The soldier leans into Phil, waiting for the moment to pass.

"How are you?" Steve grits out.

If it had been any other time, Jemma might have laughed. Because of course, regardless of what kind of situation he's in, Steve Rogers is going to be polite and respectful towards her. Phil just rolls his eyes.

"I'm well, thank you," she says instead, smiling back at him.

"Are you and Sitwell still…?"

Jemma blushes like mad and finds herself thankful that he'd had to cut himself off as Phil helped him from the table. Steve wobbles unsteadily, looking fit to keel over were it not for Phil holding him up. The agent bears most of the other man's weight as he eases Steve into the wheelchair and quickly wraps him in the blankets he'd procured. The soldier is pale and shivering, his eyes pinched with pain, but still he's doing his best to keep it together.

"Simmons, think you can push the wheelchair while I take point?" Phil asks her.

"Of course," she agrees readily.

Steve doesn't look happy at having been reduced to a state where he can't even walk out of this place under his own power, but there's not much that can be done for it. Phil walks ahead of them, gun drawn and posture ready for any obstacles they might come across.

"How has he been?"

The question catches her off guard. Steve's head is tipped back and he watches her with weary eyes.

"Worried," Jemma says honestly. "Between you and Agent Barton, it's been hard."

"Bet he's been a nightmare," Steve says with huff of laughter chased by a wince and a hiss.

"It's understandable," she says. "No one can really blame him."

She tries not to look at what she can only think of as carnage as they pass through the halls. The thought that Phil had done this—alone—and had sustained minimal injury was almost too frightening to contemplate. The idea that someone as calm and well put together, a man as good as he was, could do all this was…

"He's scary when he's angry, huh?" Steve asks.

Scary doesn't even begin to cover it. If there is one thing she's learned during her time on the Bus, it's that you don't do anything to compromise the safety of Phil's people without putting a target on your back. It's both a comforting and terrifying thought. The lengths that her superior is willing to go to in order to ensure their safety is, frankly, alarming. It's almost difficult to believe he's even capable of all this. He seems too friendly, too fatherly, too intent on keeping matters peaceful to shed this much blood. But here they are.

When they clear the compound and Grant comes to a screeching halt in front of them with a company car, Jemma is only too glad to leave the place behind.

* * *

It's hours later—how many, she doesn't know—when she sees both of them again. In the space of the time since they'd returned, Jemma has been debriefed, showered, had something to eat at Jasper's insistence, and afforded herself a little time to cuddle before Jasper was, inevitably, called back to work. So she finds herself wandering towards the infirmary until she finds where Phil has posted himself like some sort of watchman between Steve and Clint's beds. Or he would be a watchman if he were awake to actually see anything.

The three occupants of the room are all sleeping soundly and she stops to check on each of them. She pulls a blanket from the closet and drapes it over Phil as gently as possible, knowing that one wrong move will result in waking him and Lord she does not want that. Steve is rolled on his left side, one hand extended to the edge of the bed and clasped in Phil's.

At the very least, Phil has taken the time to shower and change so that he doesn't come across as some blood-soaked vision of the apocalypse, but even then it's a hard image to shake. Everyone has been rescued, however, and they've all returned home, so she decides to focus on that instead. She focuses on how many nights she had seen Phil by Clint's bedside and the way his anger had softened at the sight of Steve gazing back up at him.

It's no stretching of the truth to say that his behavior over the past month has both worried and frightened her, but she can't claim to not understand where it comes from. Families come in many shapes and sizes and while people like she and Leo have mothers and fathers and siblings and extended families to speak of, people like Phil do not. People like Phil and Skye and Clint and Steve and Natasha have the families that they've built for themselves. Jemma would do anything for her family, for the people she loves, so it's not really all that surprising that this month has been trying for all of them. Getting Clint and Steve back was the only option Phil was willing to consider. She doesn't blame him.

There will be time to talk later—and she's got a feeling Phil will want to—but for now everyone has more than earned their rest and she's only too happy to leave them to it.


	8. Haunt Me

Reality has become subjective.

He could be in his bed, or he could be strapped to an operating table. Perhaps the hands he feels aren't there to comfort him, but rather to hold him down. He can't say whether the words he hears are truthful, meant to console him, or if they're another lie to add to the pile, soothing at first whisper but meant only to placate.

Sand. Sea. Hands.

Table. Antiseptic. Hands.

Bed. Aftershave. Hands.

It's all a swirling, convoluted mess. His mind is like a tangled ball of yarn with strings being tugged in every direction, tightening the knots in the process. It hurts. Whether the pain is real or imagined, something dredged up from his patchwork memories or something present, it hurts him. His pleas for death, for an end to the pain, inspire shame in him. The knowledge that he has been reduced to this pathetic, begging _thing_ makes him as ill as the pain does.

The operating table again. His breath stutters when blue eyes enter his vision, the harsh overhead lights framing golden hair like some sort of unholy imitation of a halo.

_Not real._

His mind whispers to him.

The concerned face above him, the hands framing his face, the thumbs brushing away the tears as they fall from the corners of his eyes. The sweet, honeyed words cutting through his own screams.

_He's not real._

He sobs as the words cut as deep as that scepter ever did.

_You want to be saved so you dreamt someone up to save you._

Of course. Of course, that makes sense. He's alone. He's always been alone—… but no, not truly alone. He's had people in his life before. People he's no longer allowed to see. People who aren't allowed to know he's alive. He has people now, different people. He cares for all of them, would do anything for them, but… none of them can see him like this. None of them can be allowed in. He can't ask this of them.

The hands persist, touching him, massaging gently. Tahiti. Tahiti, right? But no… no, not that place. He's not in that place, is he? He's being asked to come back, but he doesn't want to. God, he doesn't want to. It hurts again. It's like he's being split open. Like a lobster, after you crack its shell and rend it open with your bare hands. Pulling savagely until he cracks and breaks. Exposing his insides. Exposing deep, deep down where no one is supposed to see. But they do see. They see every part of him, lay it out bare and bloody and screaming like a newborn child. Why does living have to hurt so much more than dying ever did?

A kiss.

To his forehead, to his cheeks. And why must this specter haunt him? Why dangle a vision of salvation in front of him when he knows there is none to be had? Why this man? Why?

There is sunlight when he wakes. An empty bed with tangled sheets greets him. An empty room, an empty home. Silent, still. He shivers, his skin tacky with old sweat, and draws his knees up to his chest, resting his head against them. He feels hollowed out; as empty as the bed in which he sits.

Footsteps. His name hanging in the air. A dip in the bed, strong arms around him. He pulls away to see, to make sure this is real. He reaches out, cups the face before him and has his palm nuzzled in return.

_This is real. _

Maybe he says this out loud, maybe the other man can simply read it off him, but he gets a response. Yes. Yes, this is real. Of course this is real. No, he's not going anywhere, would never dream of it.

Hands drag him forward when it becomes too much to bear. A shoulder supports his head when he can't hold it up and takes all of his tears when he can't hold back his sobs. A powerful embrace holds him together as he quickly falls apart and lends strength where he has none.

He's kissed like he's someone worth kissing and loved like he's someone who deserves it and there is nothing left in him to argue either of these points.


	9. Invite Me

Steve ducks down a hallway when his cell phone starts ringing. Fishing it out of his pocket, he turns away from the hustle and bustle of passersby and holds it up to his ear.

"Rogers," he answers.

_"Have I caught you at a bad time?"_

Steve allows himself a smile at the voice on the other end. He doesn't always know when he'll get a call from Phil, but when he does it tends to improve his day.

"No, now's fine," he replies. "How are things in Ireland?"

_"Wet,"_ Phil says. _"Primarily uneventful as far as these things go. Most of us are just looking forward to being someplace warm and dry. How are things Stateside?"_

"Not bad," Steve says, shrugging his shoulders despite knowing the agent can't see the action. "A few little errands here and there, but nothing too stressful."

_"Errands, huh?"_

"Well, it doesn't seem right to call them _missions_," Steve clarifies. "They were all little things, really."

_"Uh-huh. And how many injuries did you sustain during these so-called errands?"_

"It wasn't that bad," Steve says defensively. "Honestly, Phil, you'd think I'd never run a solo-mission before with the way you talk."

_"We're going to talk about this later, Steve,"_ Phil assures him. _"But the reason I called was because I was wondering if you were free this weekend."_

"Barring anything coming down from Fury, I'm free," Steve answers.

There's a moment of silence on the other end of the line and Steve is half expecting Phil to announce that Fury can very well go fuck himself if it interferes with whatever he has planned. The past year or so has been… tense. What with the reveal that Phil was actually alive, followed by the reveal of exactly _how_ that had happened, followed by the utter outrage over the lengths gone through to keep it a secret, not just from them, but from Phil himself, well, it was understandable. Fury isn't the only one to blame, but with the kind of cruelty he'd pushed on a man that was supposed to be his oldest friend, Steve could understand why the relationship may have suffered irreparable damage.

As it is, they're all trying to repair the damage caused by this deceit. Incidentally, the repair had led to he and Phil seeking a more… intimate relationship. Now, about six months in, Steve can honestly say this is something he'd never envisioned, but something he's unendingly grateful has occurred.

_"The team's been worn a little thin lately, I think,"_ Phil says at last. _"I suggested a weekend movie marathon."_

Steve has to laugh. "A whole weekend?"

_"Well, I figured we could go out to eat at least one night and Jasper's agreed to help make dinner the second night,"_ Phil explains. _"May plans to park the Bus on an island we happened on about ten years back. So, lounging on the beach during the day, a bonfire and some s'mores at night, and movie watching in-between. Basically, I'm proposing a weekend of being as lazy as humanly possible."_

"To be honest, I think I could use a weekend of being as lazy as humanly possible," Steve admits.

_"So you'll come?"_

"Count on it."

_"I'll be back Wednesday and we'll be leaving Friday. If you're not busy between then…"_

"Oh, believe me, I've got plans for you. What you suggested sounds nice, but you're forgetting I haven't seen you in almost a month. The only way we're leaving your bed between Wednesday and Friday is to use the bathroom."

_"You don't plan on eating?" _Phil queries, sounding amused.

"Sure I do. I bought a few cans of whipped cream, some chocolate syrup, strawberries…"

He trails off and has to smother a chuckle when he hears a strangled noise from the other end of the line. Sounds like his plans have been met with approval.

"So, what do you say?" he asks.

_"I say that it's a damn shame we haven't invented teleportation yet,"_ Phil answers.

Steve grins. "Just get home safe."

_"I will. I'll talk to you—… yes, Skye, he's coming. Yes, for real. No, I haven't been __**hiding**__ him from any of you, what does that even mean? Steve, I have to go. The kids are being nosy."_

"Tell them I said 'hello,'" Steve answers with a chuckle.

Phil ends the call, but not before telling Steve they would talk again soon, when the atmosphere was more private. Steve weighs his phone in his hand, smile still fixed in place. It's not what he'd been expecting from his weekend, but he's very far from complaining.


	10. Join Me

**A/N:** There is... sort of a MPreg kink in here, but no actual MPreg? Kind of? I don't usually write along those topics, so I don't know how to describe it, so if anything even remotely close to that genre is not your thing, then maybe don't read. Maybe don't read it anyway because I have no idea what I'm doing.

* * *

It takes time for Steve to hunt Phil down. Granted, he knows the agent has just returned from a long mission and Buster—or Bus, if one is feeling affectionate—will need time to rest, along with his crew. Steve and his team have been grounded for several days after Avenger had been grounded with a wounded wing. It would be some time yet before they were able to get in the air again and the past week had put him on edge.

The fact of the matter is, Steve and Phil haven't crossed paths in almost two months. He knows it's the nature of the job, but really, two months is quite a long time. So when he sees the agent from across the yard, he hurries right over, not bothering to hide his eagerness.

"How was your mission?" he asks.

Phil looks up from the documents on the clipboard he's hurriedly signing and offers a warm smile, gladly accepting the kiss the Steve plies him with.

"Long. Boring," Phil answers. "Mostly uneventful."

"_Steven_."

Steve would recognize that voice anywhere. Although not the great black behemoth of a dragon that Buster is, Lola is still very impressive in her own right. She's of far smaller stature, able to carry four or five people at most, but known to everyone as Phil's pride and joy. Personally owning a dragon is rare outside of the lucky ones who come to captain the crew of one, and so Lola tends to stand out. With her cherry red hide and smooth white belly and underwings, she's a true thing of beauty. The over-protective dragon had been hatched and raised by Phil himself, so although the agent had no children to speak of, earning Lola's approval had taken Steve quite a bit of time.

Now, she comes hurrying around the bend, nostrils flared and tail twitching in agitation, and he knows he's in for trouble. Phil seems to have expected this, as he rolls his eyes and sighs wearily.

"He was _injured_," Lola protests, her silver eyes flashing. "He says it was long and boring—and that part is mostly true, it was dreadfully dull—but by the end of it there was a whole mess of fighting and he was hurt. Phillip, show him your arm."

"I'm not showing him my arm," Phil says, his tone unyielding as he hands the completed paperwork off to another agent.

"Steven, make him see reason," Lola implores, nudging him with her snout. "You are very good at that. Do that thing with your eyes."

Steve frowns disapprovingly at the idea that Phil had intended to hide some sort of injury from him.

"Yes! Like that!" Lola praises. "He cannot stand it when you do that."

"It wasn't even anything serious," Phil says. "If anything, Ward got the worst of it."

"You can say that again," Grant grumbles, hobbling past with Leo's assistance.

"She's gotten herself all worked up the whole trip back," Jemma tuts, coming up behind them. "I cleaned and dressed the wound myself. There really is nothing too serious about it."

"Charlatan! I demand a second opinion," Lola declares, smacking her tail against the ground like a gavel.

"Lola, we've discussed antagonizing my team," Phil warns with a heavy sigh.

Lola deflates somewhat at that, blowing smoke rings out her nose in a pouty manner. By way of apology, she stretches out a wing and gently pats Jemma on the head, mostly because she doesn't actually enjoy saying the words "I'm sorry" when she doesn't think she should have to. Steve can only shake his head and smile, as he observes Jemma attempt to assure the dragon that she wasn't offended and that her concern is understandable.

Phil, in the meantime, scrubs a hand over his face and resists the urge to sigh yet again at the actions of his scaly, five ton, petulant child. As exasperated as he is, it tends to work both ways. The number of times Steve has heard the agent use the phrase "Don't touch Lola" must be up in the thousands by now. Lola may be overly protective of Phil, but dragons tend to adopt the habits of their owners—something Phil seems to overlook.

"How about we take a quick trip to medical so the doctors there can tell us that Jemma was right and there's nothing wrong with it. And if there _is_ something wrong, we get it taken care of," Steve suggests. "Everyone wins. Sound good?"

"Careful," May says, brushing past, her lips curled up ever so slightly at the edges in amusement. "You'll spoil her."

"I am not _spoiled_," Lola counters, snorting. "I am apparently the only one with the ability to think reasonably."

"You are overreacting," comes Buster's booming voice from above them. "And some of us have had a very tiring flight and would like to sleep. Hello, Steven."

"Hi, Bus," Steve says in greeting, reaching up to run a hand along the dragon's snout when it is offered to him. "Taking good care of everyone?"

"When they are not busy running off into danger, yes," Buster says with a click of his tongue. "Please take Phillip to the medic, if only so she will stop her whining."

"You are a brute," Lola declares, flicking her tongue out at him.

"And you are a child," Buster counters.

"If only that bullet had killed me," Phil intones flatly.

Steve tries not to laugh when Lola becomes immediately distressed by this and curls herself around the agent. He _tries_ not to laugh, but in the end even Phil's answering glare isn't enough to stop it.

* * *

Steve wakes in the middle of the night when he feels the weight on the bed shift. He bolts upright to find Phil slipping out of bed. The agent offers him an apologetic look, but brooks no argument when Steve holds his arms out, beckoning him to return.

"Where are you going?" the soldier whispers, running his hands up the shorter man's sides.

"Lola wants to stretch her wings and get something to eat," Phil explains, running his fingers through Steve's hair. "I know it's late, but I thought maybe I could pack a bag and we could have some privacy."

Steve doesn't need to be told twice. He knows exactly what Phil is referring to. There's a little spot by a lake that Lola tends to prefer; she will deposit them by a large tree and then disappear for an hour or two while she hunts, giving them privacy for more intimate activities.

"Unless you're too tired," Phil tacks on uncertainly.

"Not in the slightest," Steve answers quickly, rising from the bed with him.

Flying alone with Phil on Lola's back is something of a privilege. Apparently, until they had begun seeing each other, Phil had always made these trips by himself. There weren't many people that Phil allowed to fly with Lola and that he was one of them was something that made him feel honored. These trips, which had always been something private and entirely Phil and Lola's, had been altered to accommodate him. It's now something he and Phil share, something he looks forward to whenever they've been apart for too long.

It doesn't do much good to try and talk over the wind, so they're left to hold on to the rigging on Lola's harness and each other. Really, though, Steve prefers it this way. The journey is made in silence as the landscape beneath them gradually changes from city to rural, moonlight lighting the way. When at last the lake comes into view, Steve finds himself somewhat grateful—the autumn winds are growing colder as they creep towards winter and their time in the air has left him chilled.

"Remember, leave the farms alone," Phil says warningly as they unpack their things from Lola's back and help her shrug out of her harness.

"Yes, yes, I know Phillip," Lola says with the closest approximation of a sigh that a dragon can possibly give. "Leave the fat cows and plump pigs alone."

"I mean it, Lola," Phil says. "I don't want any more angry farmers at my door."

"Very _well_," Lola says with a snort, smoke curling from her nostrils.

Rather than take off to hunt, as she usually would, Lola sits on her rump before them and doesn't budge. Steve wonders if she might be contemplating where in particular she might like to look for her meal, but she shows no sign of moving any time soon. He shoots Phil a look and finds the agent appears to be every bit as confused as he is.

"Is there something you'd like to talk about?" Phil ventures.

"Yes," Lola declares, rustling her wings in what can only be described as a stately manner as she straightens her posture. "Steven, you have been Phillip's mate for some time now."

"Yeah, I guess that's true," Steve says with a slight laugh. Not the words he'd use himself, but no less true.

"I was merely wondering…"

Lola cocks her head, studying them both before looking to Steve.

"When do you intend to breed him?"

Steve's mouth hangs open as his brain attempts to process the question. Beside him, Phil makes a faint croaking noise as his face turns a pleasant shade of pink. The question in itself is innocent, but no less mortifying to hear.

"I have been asking and it would seem to me that you are taking your time, which is all well and good, only I have given the matter some thought and would very much like a younger brother or sister," Lola dutifully informs them. "I believe I have proven myself to be a mature and responsible role model and would therefore be well suited to the position."

Phil opens his mouth to say something and, coming up with a blank, sits himself against the tree and puts his head in his hands. Lola appears suddenly very concerned, and shifts her weight in agitation, smoking rising from her nostrils as her wings twitch worriedly. Steve manages to find his voice and reaches out to console the dragon.

"Lola, why don't we save this conversation for another time, huh?" he suggests. "It's really something Phil and I should talk about first."

She perks up considerably at that.

"Oh, yes, I understand," Lola answers brightly. "I will leave you now."

She noses each of them before trotting off and, with a few flaps of her mighty wings, taking off into the sky. Steve runs a hand through his hair and sits beside Phil, his back against the tree. The agent straightens, his face still flush with embarrassment, and meets Steve's eye with a pained look.

"Steve, I'm sorry," he says. "She didn't mean anything by it. Clearly I need to sit her down and have a talk about the differences between humans and dragons."

"Don't worry about it," Steve says, wrapping an arm around his shoulders and massaging his upper arm. "She's curious, that's all. For her kind breeding by now would be normal so, really, she's just concerned for us."

"I suppose you're right," Phil admits. He shakes his head with a soft, embarrassed laugh. "I still can't believe she asked that."

"Well," Steve says, leaning in close, "I hope it didn't ruin the mood."

"Hardly," Phil answers, tipping his head back to kiss the other man. "Help me set up the blankets."

They've perfected their routine over time, knowing just what supplies to bring and just what kind of blankets need to be laid down to make their little excursions comfortable. Steve had long ago grown comfortable with their outdoor activities—there's no one around for miles. They take their time warming each other up with wandering hands and deep, hungry kisses until at last they lie on their sides, Phil's leg hooked over Steve's as the soldier thrusts into him. Maybe it's that he's missed Phil for these past two months more than he realizes, and maybe having sex for the first time in as many weeks has tampered with his brain-to-mouth filter, but it doesn't excuse how the words come tumbling out of him.

"Gonna let me breed you, Phil?" Steve pants, slowly rolling his hips, teasing his partner.

The words are out of his mouth before he realizes. He freezes, scrambling to come up with an apology, but is halted in this process when Phil moans, clenching around him.

"Fuck, Steve, _please_."

A jolt of pleasure travels from his navel to his cock and he groans, tightening his grip on the shorter man's hips as he slowly begins thrusting again.

"You like that?" he asks, mouthing at the agent's shoulder, biting occasionally. "Like when I talk to you like that?"

Phil can only nod, pushing back against him every time he thrusts forward. They've done the whole dirty talk thing before and Steve's learned just what keys the shorter man up, but as strange as it is to admit, apparently Lola's innocent questioning has opened up an unexplored kink for both of them. Being a man capable of great adaptation, Steve does what he does best and goes with it.

"Gonna breed you just like Lola asked," Steve growls. He removes his hand from Phil's hip, but instead of reaching for his partner's cock, he spreads his hand over the man's lower abdomen and squeezes possessively. "Pump you full of cum until your belly swells with my baby. What do you think? Huh? You want that, Phil?"

Steve's cock throbs as Phil _shakes_ with want, moaning loud enough to make Steve thankful they're miles from people. He's on the razor's edge of orgasm and Steve knows that when he comes, he's going to come hard.

"I want it," Phil answers, hips moving in tandem with Steve's.

"You're gonna get it," Steve grunts, thrusting with wild abandon. "Gonna get you nice and fat and pregnant on my cum, fill you up with enough for a whole damn litter… fuck, get ready to take it for me."

"Do it," Phil begs. "Christ, Steve, do it. I want you to breed me."

Steve goes off like a gunshot, still keeping pace as he comes hard enough to see stars. Phil quickly follows, jerking and shuddering in Steve's grasp, writhing as the soldier drives him to completion. It seems like it takes a very long time for each of them to come back down, although pleasure has been known to warp Steve's perception of time. Still, it seems like ages later that they're lying in a shivering, panting heap.

"When will there be an egg?"

Lola's voice catches them off guard, enough so that Steve feels Phil's whole body stiffen in surprise. He grunts, wishing he'd pulled out before Phil clamped down on his oversensitive cock.

"Lola, go," Phil says, his voice full of strained patience.

"But Steven said he had bred—"

"I've told you about spying," Phil chastises. "Go cool off in the lake and think about what you've done."

Lola comes out from behind the tree, looking sore for having been told off as she drags herself towards the beach. Phil breathes out a heavy sigh, relaxing at last, and Steve takes the opportunity to pull out. He settles himself beside the other man, running a hand up and down his back. It may not be the best time to address it, but what's just happened is sort of hanging in the air and rather hard to ignore.

"So, that just happened," he says.

Not the most eloquent of approaches. Phil turns his head and looks to him questioningly.

"Well, what I mean is," he tries again, "I don't really know exactly why I said what I said. Heat of the moment or… something. What I'm getting at is that we usually discuss these kinds of things before hand and I'm sorry I kind of sprung that on you. The whole… breeding thing."

To his great surprise, Phil shrugs.

"I'm not sure why you're apologizing," he says. "I thought it made it very clear that I liked it."

"Sure," Steve says slowly. He pauses, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "I just wanted to make sure I hadn't crossed the line. It's a little more out there as far as dirty talk goes, for us anyway."

"If you ever cross the line, you'll know it, and if for some reason you don't, then I'll tell you" Phil says quietly. He watches Lola splash her wings in the water for a time before he deigns to speak again. "I've been coming to the spot ever since Lola first learned to fly. I know that I'm overprotective of her, so there are only a few people I trust to ride with her. But out of all of them, I've never brought a single one of them here. This has always been my spot. This has always been for me alone. Even other people I've seen romantically I never…"

He stops, gives his head a little shake and looks back to Steve once again, resting his head on his folded arms as he lies on his stomach.

"I never brought any of them here. It didn't feel right," Phil explains. "And I'll admit, I surprised myself a little the first time I asked you to join me. I had always intended to keep this as something I didn't share with other people, but something felt right about asking you. And now I'm glad that it isn't something I do alone anymore. Because I was. Alone, I mean. I'm beyond thankful that you've changed that for me. "

He levers himself up on his elbows and leans in to plant a quick, chaste kiss on the soldier's lips. Steve follows him as he retreats, ending with their foreheads pressed together.

"So don't worry about the things you said earlier," Phil says. "It was spur of the moment and we both enjoyed it so there's nothing to be too concerned about. I think we both know there's no chance of you getting me pregnant, no matter how hard you try."

Steve snorts a laugh. "I guess you're right."

"I am," Phil says as he begins to rise. "I need to go wash off, so I'm going to take a quick dip in the lake."

"Mind if I join you?" Steve asks, grinning up at him.

"I'd mind if you didn't."

That's all the encouragement Steve really needs.


	11. Kill Me

**WARNING:** Major Character Death in this chapter. Zombie/L4D AU.

* * *

"We need to talk," Phil announces.

Steve, Tony and Bruce look up from where they're gathered at the table. They've finally found a safe place to squat for a few hours, or at least until morning. The door, spray painted red, had been like a beacon in the distance after they'd fought tooth and nail to escape the horde of the undead they'd stumbled upon after days of uneasy travel.

"Can we maybe save the plan-of-action talk for _after_ we've slept?" Tony snorts. "Seriously, calm down. There are more than enough supplies to hole up here for a few days—"

"This can't wait," Phil cuts him off firmly.

"Okay," Steve says peaceably. "What is it, Phil?"

The man shifts where he stands, arms crossed tightly over his chest. He stands away from the group in a decidedly deliberate fashion, his gaze flickering from them to the floor before he speaks.

"I've been bitten," he says, the muscle in his jaw jumping at the admission.

There's a moment of horrified silence as the meaning of his words sink in. Steve is the first out of his seat, but Bruce hurries past him, medkit in hand.

"Show me the bite," the doctor says.

Phil nods dutifully, but his movements are stiff as he sheds his jacket. The deep red stain at his shoulder makes Steve's blood run cold; it's still wet, still fresh. The man unbuttons his shirt and peels it back with a wince, the wet fabric clinging to his skin and the wound. Bruce immediately pushes him into a chair and gets to work cleaning the bite mark.

"What happened?" Steve asks numbly. "I thought we all made it through…"

"The Witch," Tony blurts.

"What about her?" Bruce murmurs, focused on his patient.

"Mr. Stark," Phil says in a warning tone. "Don't."

"Oh my God," Steve breathes suddenly. "I startled the Witch. Back by the car lot, I startled her and…"

How could he have overlooked it? They had been foraging for supplies. Spying a medkit that had been lost beneath a nearby car, Steve had crept closer, despite the Witch's cries. She had been close enough for him to see, but far enough so that he was confident she wouldn't be disturbed by his presence. He'd propped his pack against the car and, lying on his back, he'd shimmied beneath the car until the kit was in his grasp. What he hadn't anticipated was what happened when he tried to get back out.

Entirely by accident, as he was attempting to slide back out, his foot managed to catch a stray pipe. It had toppled over from where it leaned against a pile of debris, smacking the side of the next car over. Immediately the alarm had sounded. Needless to say, she hadn't cared much for that and the air had soon been filled with the wail of the car alarm and the shrieks of the undead woman. But Phil—stupid, stupid Phil—had tried to draw her attention away from Steve and in doing so had drawn it to himself. They couldn't gun her down fast enough and she'd jumped him, cruel claws hacking at him until they were able to finish her off.

It had seemed that she'd only managed to scratch him up quite a bit, but clearly that wasn't the case. Steve feels sick as makes eye contact with his partner and sees guilt in his eyes. Why should he feel guilty when Steve is to blame?

"Steve, sit down," Bruce instructs gently. "Tony, get a couple of bottles of water and give one to Steve, please."

Steve does so, sitting heavily in the chair beside Phil. The shorter man reaches for his hand and Steve obliges, squeezing tightly as Bruce continues to work.

"Let's not freak out, okay?" Tony says, handing a bottle to Steve before handing the remainder to Bruce. Really, though, he looks like he's saying it as much for himself as he is for them. "He could be immune like I am. Remember when that happened? We all freaked out and thought I was infected, but it turned out I was immune to the virus the whole time. Maybe Phil's the same. We've just gotta… stay positive. Besides, you're a tough old bastard, Phil."

"Don't call me old."

"Okay, dad."

"You're only a few years younger than I am, Stark."

"Not according to your hairline."

They try to keep up their usual banter as Bruce begins dressing the wound, but it all falls flat. Their teasing is lackluster, the reality of the situation hanging heavily over all their heads. At last Bruce is finished and declares that Phil should rest, saying that the three of them can manage the watch without him. It alarms Steve that Phil doesn't protest, just does as their resident physician suggests and retreats to the bed rolls.

"We'll just keep an eye on him, I'll keep on top of the bite with whatever medical supplies we've got and hopefully that will be enough," Bruce says with a weary sigh.

"I just can't believe I let this happen. Over a stupid medkit," Steve says, scrubbing a shaking hand across his face.

"Hey, no. Don't fucking start," Tony warns him, angrily. "No one lets anything happen these days, they just happen. It's out of our control. The world's gone to shit and you do whatever you can and hope you get to see tomorrow. So don't pull a Bruce because I guarantee Phil will fucking hate you for it."

Steve remembers, of course, when Tony had been bitten. How Bruce had blamed himself. How it had nearly broken him to think that he might be the reason that Tony would die. Steve now finds himself in that position and knows that Tony's right, that Phil will hate him for thinking it's his fault. But it is. He knows he will never be able to convince himself otherwise, just as he knows Bruce has never truly forgiven himself.

"Go be with him," Bruce says. "I've got first watch."

Steve nods gratefully, retreating to the back of the safe house where Phil is already lying on a bed roll. They don't say a word, just let their actions speak for themselves. And when Phil needs to be held, Steve holds him and the look in his eyes absolves Steve of any guilt in the matter, but still it remains. Knowing he has to be the strong one here, he kisses the shorter man on the head and waits until he falls asleep to let his tears fall.

* * *

They try to remain optimistic, but the next few days make it very clear that optimism will do nothing for them. So they deny the reality of the situation and press on, trying to convince themselves that Phil might just yet pull through and clinging to even the faintest of possibilities. They hope against hope that if they just give him time he'll work it out of his system just like Tony had. But Phil's health steadily declines, day after day, hour after hour, until he can barely keep himself upright. When they stop at another safe house, Phil decides the matter needs to be addressed.

"I think we all know by now that I'm not immune," he declares, propped up against the wall.

He's pale and wan, sweating with the fever that is burning him up.

"That might not be true," Tony argues. "Maybe it's just taking longer than it did with me."

"I'm dying, Mr. Stark," Phil says frankly. "I don't have much time left."

The room goes silent, none of them wanting to agree with what they all know to be true.

"That being said, I think it's time I left," Phil says.

"What?" Steve nearly shouts. "What are you talking about?"

"I mean," Phil says slowly, taking a deep breath, "that I've weighed all of you down enough. We've had some close calls recently because I can no longer carry my weight. I have… a few hours, at most, I think… so I intend to take my pistol, with just one bullet because you'll need the ammunition, and find a quiet place to die."

"_Fuck you_," Tony spits. "You're not doing that."

"Tony," Bruce says quietly, laying a hand on his shoulder.

Tony smacks his hand away. "You're not telling me you _agree_ with him?" he asks incredulously.

Bruce looks at once terribly guilty and infinitely saddened.

"He's not going to get better," he says softly.

"You don't know that," Steve says, shaking his head, trying not to let himself cross the threshold into hysterical. "We don't _know that yet_."

"I'm not saying I want this. I want anything _but_ this," Bruce says, raising his voice. "I'm just saying that maybe you should respect his decision."

"To go kill himself!?" Steve spits.

"_Enough_."

Phil pants even from the effort it takes to shout. His eyes are glassy, his expression pained.

"God knows I don't want this to be it," he says breathlessly. "But if I'm going, it's going to be on my terms. I'm going to die, one way or another, and stopping me from doing this will only serve to let me suffer out the last of it in front of you. And when I come back—which will happen—one of you will have to put me down. And I'm not…"

He pauses, closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, like he's not getting enough air.

"Not doing that," he says.

"No," Tony says stubbornly. "Do you honestly think we're going to let you go out there and do this? That we're okay with you just… going off and dying alone?"

"Yes," Phil says simply.

"Just… _shut up_," Tony hisses, moisture gathering in his eyes, his voice cracking. "Shut. Up."

"You're not going," Steve adds fiercely.

"And just how do you plan to stop me?" Phil questions, rising on shaky legs.

"Stop, sit down," Steve says, starting forward. "You need to rest, you—"

He's surprised when the hand he'd reached to lay on the shorter man's shoulder is smacked away.

"_Dammit Steve_," Phil shouts. "Stop pretending this isn't happening. It's very much happening and I figured you, out of everyone, would at least respect me enough to give me this."

"I can't let you do this," Steve says, choking the words out.

"Why? Because if you don't let me do this, you can keep on pretending that it won't happen? And if it doesn't happen, it's not your fault I'm dead?" Phil presses, looking fit to collapse at any moment.

Steve feels sick. It's true, he can't stand having to live with the fact that he's the reason Phil's dead. No more than he can stand having to go on without Phil there to go on with him. Phil's expression goes soft, some of the anger leaving him at everyone's obvious distress over his words.

"Steve, it was never your fault. Stop making this out to be the consequences of anything other than my decision. I did what I wanted and if I had it to do again… if I could do it over a hundred times… I'd choose the same thing every time," Phil says, leaning against the safe house door. He takes a few, measured breaths before continuing. "But you have to let me go now. Don't let me… I don't want to be one of those…"

Phil shakes his head, breathing heavily as he closes his eyes and doesn't continue. It's one of the few moments of vulnerability that Steve can pick out from the time they've known each other and, quite suddenly, he understands. The idea of going out by anything but his own hand terrifies Phil, because if he doesn't, if he toughs it out until his last, then he'll turn into one of those things. In a single moment, Steve understands and he accepts and he mourns.

"I'm going with you," is his quiet declaration.

"Steve," Tony intones, his voice warbling unstably. "Steve, don't."

"Tony," Bruce says simply, reaching for him.

The genius pulls away, taking the few steps necessary to bring him to Phil. He fists his hands in the other man's shirt and looks him dead in the eye. He must see something because he shakes his head, tears spilling down his cheeks.

"It doesn't have to be over, we can try other things. We could—we could try an infusion of my blood, see if that chases out the infection," Tony babbles.

"You know it won't," Phil says.

"Don't do this," Tony pleads. "Please. Don't go."

"I'm sorry," Phil replies, eyes wet. "I'm so sorry."

A sob escapes Tony's mouth as he hauls Phil in, warms wrapped around him like his life depends on it. Phil hugs him back with as much strength as his failing body can muster. Tony won't say goodbye, they all know that; he'd never been very good at goodbyes, really. Goodbyes are concrete, permanent things that the genius never cared to dabble in. Goodbye is giving in, and he's not going to do that.

At last he pulls away, allowing Bruce to replace him. His embrace is gentler than Tony's, but no less meaningful. There is a hushed conversation between the two of them and Steve can make out enough to know that Bruce is apologizing—and that Phil is subsequently telling him there's nothing he needs to seek forgiveness for.

All too soon it seems like Phil and Steve are packing, preparing to make one last journey together. Tony and Bruce watch them go with equal parts resentment and regret.

"I saw a hill a little ways back the way we came," Phil says. "There was a nice sycamore tree, I remember, I think…"

Steve nods dutifully. "Then that's where we'll go."

He finds himself catching Phil many times along the way, for the man will not be carried but can hardly keep himself upright. He half-carries, half-drags his partner to the sycamore tree in the end, as they reach the hill Phil had described. Steve sets him down gently, propping him up against the trunk. Even the short trip has worn him down considerably and it's plain to see he isn't going to last much longer. With a heavy heart, Steve sits beside him and takes the shorter man's hand in his own, trying to ignore the fact that Phil barely has the strength to squeeze back.

"I'm glad," Phil begins, pausing as he tries to swallow the lump in his throat. "I'm glad we got to be together. For a little."

"Me, too," Steve replies. "I just wish…"

Phil turns his head to look at him, his eyes dull as his energy wanes.

"Promise me," Phil says, "that you won't… won't blame yourself. That you'll keep going."

Steve tries to smile reassuringly, but falls far short.

"Please, Steve," Phil pleads, voice thick with emotion. "You're not the reason… for my death. So… don't let me be the reason… for yours."

"Okay," Steve says, unable to hold back his tears anymore. "Okay."

Phil breaths heavily, gasps intermingling with sobs as tears pour down his face. Steve pulls him in, strong arms encircling him as they cry together. Hands coming up to frame his face, Steve kisses him, fiercely, desperately, trying to pack everything he can into one last kiss. He wishes they had one more day together; one more day he could watch the other man wake, one more day where he could kiss him good morning and have everything feel like it was going to be okay, at least for that little while. One more chance to make love to him.

"I love you," Phil says as his partner pulls away. "I know… I never said it much…"

"It's okay," Steve says, kissing his forehead. "I know. I always knew. I love you, Phil."

Phil looks down at the gun in his lap. "I think it's… time now."

Steve's face caves at the words, tears flowing fresh as he kisses Phil again and again. "Not yet, please. A few more minutes, please, just a little while longer."

Phil's resolve nearly crumbles at the desperation in his words and actions. It would be so much nicer to just drift off in Steve's arms, to just… quietly pass on being held by the man he loves. But in doing so, he'd be forcing Steve into the task of disposing of him once he turned, and he can't do that. He can't bear making him do that.

"Has to be… now. I'm not… I'm not gonna…"

He won't last much longer. A few minutes, at best. So Steve nods and pulls back, lingering for one final kiss before rising and settling across from the shorter man. Phil takes a deep breath and lifts the pistol from his lap, only for it to fall back. He tries, time and again, to summon the strength to hold it up to his head, and he fails every time. A quiet noise of frustration leaves him as Steve moves to his right side, wrapping his hand around Phil's and helping him guide the nozzle to his temple.

"We'll do it together," Steve declares.

Phil wishes he could tell the other man how grateful he is. He wishes he had the time to say that Steve is the best thing to ever have happened to him.

"I love you," Phil says, one last time.

"I love you, too," Steve answers.

Together, they squeeze the trigger.

* * *

Tony and Bruce sit and wait outside the safe house, watching the dying sun in the distance. Not a word is spoken between them as they hear the report of a pistol in the distance. Steve returns after the sun has slipped below the horizon, dragging a shovel and covered in dirt. His eyes a dry and hard and he says nothing as they fall back into the safe house and lock the door.

* * *

"Where's Steve now?" Natasha asks, pouring them all a cup of tea.

"After we reached the coast and the vaccine was discovered, we lost track of each other in the rebuild," Tony says. He shakes his head. "He kept on going, kept his promise, but he was never the same after Phil."

"I can't imagine he would be," Pepper says, looking at her wedding ring a tad guiltily.

"I think it was just… how fucking twisted it was," Tony says. "I mean, the fact that the world goes to shit a few months after Phil wakes up from a coma after his stabbing? No one thought he was going to pull through but he did, only to die a few months later, anyway. What kind of sick fucking joke is that?"

"I still can't believe it," Clint says, shaking his head. "I mean, I just figured… that couldn't happen. Not to him."

"You still didn't answer my question," Natasha points out.

"I don't know where he is," Tony reminds her.

"But if you had to guess?"

If he had to guess, Tony would tell her about a quiet little spot. It's a bit out of the way, but there's a little hill with a nice big sycamore tree on top. He could tell her this, but he won't. Steve might still be alive, but Tony knows full well that when Phil had died, a large part of Steve had died with him.

No, he doesn't know where Steve Rogers is. But if he had to guess, he'd say that beneath the shade of a sycamore tree is as good a guess as any.


	12. Love Me

Steve's been to a baseball game or two since he'd been thawed out, but he can't say he's been to a hockey game. So when Phil approaches him with two tickets and hotel reservations in Boston for the weekend, he decides it's time he brushed up on Canada's national sport. Now, he knows that Phil enjoys the sport, but he apparently underestimated just how much. As they're getting ready to head to the Garden, he can't keep a straight face once he sees what the other man has chosen to wear.

"Really?" he asks with a chuckle.

"It's a superstitious thing. I'm allowed to be superstitious," Phil says defensively. "Besides, I like this jersey."

He traces the 'C' patch sewn over the agent's heart. "The Captain, huh?"

"Yes," Phil says, clearing his throat. He checks his watch. "We should get going. The place fills up quickly and I want to walk you around before it gets too crowded."

He lets the matter drop, seeing that it's clearly left Phil a little hot under the collar, but fully intends to pick it back up again later. He never can allow a good opportunity to tease the supposedly unflappable Agent Coulson to get away from him.

Riding the T is an interesting experience. It's nice to see Phil as relaxed as he is, freely engaging in conversation with other fans, dropping stats and personal opinions on player performance with the same ease that he might discuss the specs on an op. Thankfully, Steve only gets recognized once or twice. It's not that he minds meeting fans, it's just that this weekend he has plans to be Steve and not Captain America. Phil had planned out a weekend for them to get away from it all and he fully intended to take advantage of that, so he tugs the Bruins cap Phil had gotten him low over his forehead in the hopes of retaining his anonymity.

Phil hadn't been kidding when he'd said that the Garden filled up quick—even two hours before puck drop there are plenty of people filing inside. The place is still empty enough for Phil to give him his own personal tour, and Steve smiles as the agent rattles on about the history of the sport, the team and the city. It's clear that hockey holds the same meaning for Phil that baseball does for him.

They take to their seats for the pre-game skate and Steve finds himself impressed yet again. The seats Phil had managed to get were only a few rows back from the ice, close to the Zamboni doors. The agent points out player after player as they skate by, giving Steve a quick profile. Phil seems excited by all of it, his eyes alive and his speech animated, but it doesn't quite compare to when the Bruins' captain skates by. Steve lets out an appreciative whistle.

"He's a big fella, isn't he?" he notes.

"Zdeno Chara; age thirty-six, 6'9" without skates and 6'11" with," Phil informs him. "The tallest player in the NHL. Signed to the Bruins in 2006 where he was given the Captain's 'C' after the team had traded former Captain Joe Thornton the year prior. He's a Norris Trophy winner, holds the record for the hardest slap shot in the NHL at 108.8 mph, and is the first player born behind the Iron Curtain to captain a team to the Stanley Cup."

Steve almost laughs, but doesn't want to embarrass Phil. He wonders if the agent is aware of the fact that he straightens his posture every time the captain skates by. Still, he can have a little fun, can't he?

"Oh, I get it," Steve says.

"Get what?" Phil asks, eyes still on the ice.

"You've just got a thing for captains," Steve replies, clucking his tongue.

"Wait, what?" Phil asks, turning to look at him with wide eyes. "Where do you get that?"

"Come on, Phil. Don't tell me you don't notice how you sit pretty every time he skates by?" Steve prods with a grin.

"I do _not_," Phil counters, with a frown.

"You've got a crush on him. I'm okay with that," Steve continues, enjoying himself.

"I don't have a crush on him, I greatly admire and respect him," Phil says, folding his arms over his chest.

"Just like you greatly admire and respect ESPN's Body Issue from 2009?" Steve asks.

He watches Phil's expression go carefully neutral even as his face begins turning pink. In all likelihood, he's trying to figure out how Steve even knows about that. The agent clears his throat and slowly turns his attention back to the ice.

"They were tastefully shot images of an athlete who keeps himself in peak physical condition," Phil answers.

"Is that why the pages stick together?"

"They do not _stick_," Phil says with a snort.

Okay, so perhaps it's time he eased off. His playful teasing seems to be embarrassing the agent a little more than he'd intended. Looping his arm around the shorter man's shoulders, he gives him a quick, one-armed hug.

"I'm sorry, I was just teasing, alright?" Steve assures him.

"Oh, I know that," Phil says, sporting an amused smile. "But I figured at the very least, I could guilt you into buying the first round."

"And here I felt bad for you," Steve says, jostling him slightly.

So after purchasing some snacks and the first round of drinks—Boston Brick Red at Phil's insistence, because nothing else would do—he settles back into his seat to enjoy the game. The pace is so much faster than he remembers, and hockey had always been a quick sport. There's more equipment involved these days, but it's all been refine to a very sleek look so that the players look more like bullets than anything else as they shoot from one end of the ice to the other.

Steve's enjoying the game, impressed with the level of skill they're being presented with, but he's enjoying Phil's enjoyment of the game just as much. He finds himself following the agent's lead, joining in the cry of "Tuuuuuuuuukk!" whenever their goalie makes a particularly nice save as well as the rallying chants that the crowd throws up continually throughout the game. It's just after the second period that Steve's mood takes an abrupt detour. He nearly chokes on his beer when Phil nudges him with an elbow and points up to the Jumbotron.

"So much for keeping this a quiet night out," Phil says.

There's a live feed of him up on the large screens with the words 'Welcome Captain America!' in patriotic themed font. Not wanting to be rude, he gives a little wave, which gets cheers and whistles from the crowd and shoulder slaps from the people seated around him. He smiles, dipping his head in humble acknowledgement of their support but breathes a sigh of relief when the camera is off him.

"I can't take you anywhere," Phil mock-gripes.

"To be fair, I don't know why either of us thought a hat would do the trick," Steve says, removing said hat and studying it as he runs a hand through his hair.

"You're right. Definitely should have worn the fake moustache," Phil says, sipping his beer.

"Personally, I'd have gone with a fake beard."

Steve twists in his seat and sighs when he sees Clint crouched on the stairs just behind him. Natasha leans against the rail and waves.

"What are you two doing here?" Phil asks, not sounding particularly pleased to see them.

"Don't give me that look," Clint says. "You know Natasha likes hockey just as much as you do."

"I'm Russian," Natasha says with a shrug of her shoulder. "It's what we do."

"And you just decided to get tickets to this game in particular?" Steve asks.

"Well, had to make sure you two had a hassle-free date, didn't we?"

Phil watches them both carefully before his eyes gradually narrow. "…you two told them to put Steve on the Jumbotron, didn't you?"

"He's very photogenic," Natasha says innocently.

"Just be glad we didn't tell them to put you on the Kiss Cam."

Phil groans as he sees Melinda slowly making her way down the stairs, box of popcorn in-hand. Steve is beginning to wonder just how many other unexpected guests they'll be getting tonight.

"Please don't tell me you brought the kids," Phil sighs.

Melinda arches an eyebrow at that. "Dad's not the only one who gets a date night."

Steve takes a look at the three of them—a good, long look—and then it all clicks into place. He can't say it's something he had known about but he can't say he's all that surprised. The three of them have always seemed to click whenever they were around each other. Steve remains silent as he processes this, but Phil doesn't seem all that affected by the announcement.

"And you chose Boston. This weekend. This game," Phil intones flatly.

"We should go to Mike's Pastry together," Clint announces. "Steve, has he taken you there, yet? Make sure he takes you there."

"I prefer Modern," Natasha says.

"No, it's gotta be Mike's," Clint argues.

"Hawkguy's right, you should go to Mike's," adds a man from the row behind them.

"_Thank you_," Clint says, as though that's won the argument. "But it's Hawk_eye_, dude. Why do people always think it's Hawkguy?"

"How much do I have to pay the three of you to go away?" Phil asks at last.

"Aww, Phil," Clint says.

"We were just checking in," Natasha says, stealing a sip of Steve's beer. "Enjoy your date."

"And if you don't want to see us again, I'd suggest ignoring the table at the back corner when you head to your dinner reservation tomorrow," Melinda adds smoothly as they start walking back up the stairs.

Phil and Steve settle back in their seats, sharing a look that can only be summed up as an apology for the people they choose to associate with being the kind of people that they are. Although, Steve reflects, something should be said of the fact that they're really not surprised by these kinds of antics anymore. But the third period is starting and they've been mostly left alone, so he decides to get back to enjoying the game. For the most part he succeeds… right up until they get to the Kiss Cam.

When he sees himself and Phil up on the screen, he decides that a slow death would be too kind a fate for the three spies. Still, never being one to back down from a challenge, Steve reaches over and grabs a fistful of Phil's jersey and hauls him in for a kiss. There's beer sloshed over both of them and there are mixed cheers and whistles and a few boos here and there from the crowd and he's pretty sure they're being recorded on more than a few cell phones and maybe he hears a few stick taps, but he can't be bothered to give a damn.

"Show off," Phil says, looking to see if any beer had made it onto his jersey.

"Guilty as charged," Steve says with a smile.

"You know Stark is going to get ahold of that," Phil reminds him.

"I can live with that," Steve decides, settling an arm around his shoulders.

By the end of the night, Steve can see why Phil loves it so much. It's quite an experience, not all that dissimilar to a baseball game. The collective energy of the building leaves him feeling buzzed in a way that alcohol no longer can. A short T ride and a shorter walk later, they arrive at their hotel room and Steve flops back onto the bed, looking forward to winding down.

"What'd you think?" Phil asks.

"I had a great time. I hope we can go again sometime," Steve says, beckoning the agent to join him. He pulls Phil onto the bed when he nears and grins as the shorter man moves to straddle his waist. "Thank you for taking me."

"Thank you for indulging me," Phil answers as Steve's hands settle on his hips.

Steve hums in response. "Mm. Black and gold looks good on you. Maybe you should start wearing a black suit and gold tie on game days."

"Don't encourage me," Phil says with a laugh.

Steve goes back to tracing the 'C' patch on the agent's chest as he had been earlier. He knows it's likely past the point of needing to be said, but he wants to say what's on his mind all the same.

"You know I don't really have a problem with you admiring Chara, right?" Steve says. He smiles teasingly. "I'm okay with not being the only captain in your life."

Phil watches him carefully, a soft smile on his face as he places his hands over Steve's where they rest on his hips. He gradually begins to lean forward as he runs his hands down the length of the soldier's forearms. When he reaches the elbow, he shifts his attentions and instead begins slowly massaging the taller man's chest.

"You know that I don't always go in for men," Phil begins.

"Mmhmm," Steve hums in recognition.

His mind goes to the cellist, to the other women who had been romantic interests at one point or another in Phil's life. Phil's dated more women than men, but Steve knows that. He just wonders where exactly this statement is headed.

"But when I do, I like them the same way I like my women," Phil explains, leaning closer. "I guess you could say I've got a thing for people who are talented, with a strong sense of leadership who still manage to remain effortlessly humble. Maybe you could say my type happens to be people who make it a priority to help others, who suffer from that valiant strength of character and morals, who know that nothing is gained without determination and hard work and who are willing to offer more than their fair share of both."

Phil's hands slide up his chest, up his neck and come to frame his face. When the agent moves in to kiss him, Steve lifts his head from the pillows to meet him. He parts his lips invitingly, a small, pleased noise escaping him as Phil takes the invitation and deepens the kiss. There's no urgency backing either of their movements, nothing but a languid satisfaction at simple touch and response. When Phil finally pulls away, Steve smiles drowsily up at him—he'd liked the taste of the beer when he'd been drinking it, but there was something about the lingering taste of it on Phil's tongue that had been far more appealing.

"I find myself drawn to people who deal in respect based on where it's earned, not one's station in life," Phil says. He smiles and presses another quick kiss to the soldier's lips. "So I've got a type. The captain thing is just a bonus. Yes, I admire Chara the same way I admire you, but the thing that will always be the difference is that I don't just admire you, Steve. I love you. Just you."

At least a dozen poetically romantic responses cross his mind, but his mouth has decided not to consult his brain.

"Let's get room service in the morning," he says.

Phil looks, understandably, perplexed.

"I don't plan on letting you leave this bed any time soon," Steve expounds.

"Oh no?" Phil answers, allowing Steve to gently roll them both over until he's on his back. "I'd figured you'd want to see the city."

"No," Steve murmurs, mouthing at his neck. "You planned this weekend for us to relax. We can see the city later; I've got what I want right here."

Steve breathes deeply, his eyes falling shut as Phil's hands make their way to his hair and he feels the agent's chest rise and fall in a slow sigh. He'd never admit it, but seeing Phil admire the hockey captain the same way he admired him had left him feeling a little… jealous. Not threatened, but jealous. Those feelings had quickly dissolved in the face of the agent's words, however, and now he can't help but feel foolish for it.

"I love you, too, you know," Steve says quietly.

"I know," Phil answers.

Steve lifts his head, looks him in the eye. "Do you?"

He's sure that he could spend the rest of his life explaining to Phil just how much he means to him without ever being able to make the agent fully understand. But when Phil says that he knows, when he smiles at Steve with one of those soft, private smiles that no one else gets to see—the one where his walls are down and he's exposed, offering up the most private parts of himself—Steve doesn't argue.


	13. Mourn Me

Steve had mourned. Looking back, he's not sure if it was an appropriate length of time, considering he'd barely known Phil. But it had seemed that the more he learned about the agent from others, the deeper he fell into mourning. If it's strange to mourn for a man you barely know, then it certainly has to be strange to pine for one. But that's really the only way he can think to describe it. That strange sense of longing that had snaked its way into his grief.

He hid all this, of course, because the last thing he needed was to be sent to a padded room for fantasizing about a dead man. Until, quite suddenly, that dead man wasn't so dead and his strange sense of longing was given a purpose. Now, months later, he finds himself in a picture of cozy—if unconventional—domesticity. Despite being happier than he can recall having been in a very long time, he finds that sometimes late at night, when Phil is asleep and he lies awake, he still mourns.

At first, he wasn't sure what it was. He'd gotten what he'd wanted, more than he could have ever hoped for, why should he continue to feel this way? But slowly, over time, he began to understand.

Steve had fallen in love with who Phil was, and while there's no doubt that he's very much in love with the man currently joining his team in hassling Jemma for "using her Britishness against them" in a word game, they aren't the same person. They're close, but not the same. Phil Coulson is very much alive—this is reinforced whenever he places a hand to the other man's chest, whenever he picks Phil up after the Bus has docked, whenever the agent insists on inspecting any injuries Steve has acquired in his absence, whenever they lie beside one another in bed, whenever they make love.

Phil is alive. But Steve mourns for the part of him that stayed dead. Because that's what it is. As alive as Phil is now, as much as S.H.I.E.L.D. had pieced him back together, Steve knows they missed some things. He wonders, though, if those pieces can't be recovered. If they can't be made alive again, just as Phil as been.

"You were quiet tonight," Phil notes as they prepare for bed.

"Sorry," Steve says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Just tired, I guess."

"You don't have to apologi—…Steve?"

Steve blinks and looks up, only then realizing that his face is wet. With an aggravated sigh, he scrubs quickly at his eyes, clearing them of any moisture. But the damage is done. Phil sits beside him on the edge of the bed and he feels the agent's hand at the small of his back.

"Talk to me," Phil says gently.

Steve shakes his head. "It's nothing. I just… got a little caught up in what I was thinking about."

"Okay," Phil says, rubbing his back. "Do you want to talk about it?"

Does he want to talk about it? He wants to get it off his chest, but again, he can hardly do that without sounding absolutely insane. And Phil is doing better. Sometimes he seems to be more of that man that Steve had initially fallen in love with. Over time, it's seemed like he's begun to… heal. As much as he can, all things considered. And how selfish of him would it be to say that he mourns the parts of Phil that they didn't manage to resurrect, the pieces they'd left dead and buried? How selfish is that when he loves the man beside him and when that man loves him as much in return? But the missing pieces remain, all the same.

He can't talk about those things. Instead he turns and reaches around to grab the back of Phil's head before crushing their lips together, kissing him in a manner that does nothing to mask his want. Phil, blessed with the ability to roll with the punches, goes along with it and doesn't try to press him to talk. Steve wants to focus on now, on him, on feeling him.

His whole body is taut with anticipation and need until Phil is at last inside him and everything falls away. He rolls his hips in time with the shorter man's thrusts, wanting it, needing it, so desperate to fill that ache in his chest. Phil whispers a declaration of love against his lips as he comes and Steve whimpers into his mouth, spilling over his own fist.

Part of him feels guilty for using sex to mask the problem, and he wonders if he's using Phil in that way. But it helps to soothe that ache. It's not fucking—they've fucked before, and this is very far from that—but it's not quite making love either.

"Is it me?" Phil asks him as they lie in the quiet of the bedroom.

"No," Steve says. "God, no. It's…"

Don't say it. Don't let him know.

"I fell in love with you before I really met you," Steve says before he can stop himself. Phil is watching him very carefully, he can see that even in the dim light. "I know it sounds crazy, but what I mean is… After you died, I felt remorse. Guilt. And I tried to ease that by talking to the people who seemed to have known you best. The more I learned about you, the more I began to… mourn. And gradually, with that, I started to have _feelings_ for you, for that man."

"But I'm not that man," Phil finishes quietly.

Something in Steve's chest clenches painfully.

"I love you, Phil. The you that's here right now," he says resolutely. "But there's a part of me that hasn't figured out how to stop mourning the parts of you that we lost."

"I'm sorry. I'm trying—"

"Don't apologize, please," Steve says, reaching out to tug him close, wrapping his arms around the other man as though he can somehow anchor them both down. "This isn't on you. It shouldn't be your problem to fix. I know you're trying; I'm trying, too. But that doesn't mean I'm unhappy or ungrateful or that this isn't good enough. I love every part of you—broken and missing parts included. I just…"

It sounds every bit as selfish as he'd thought it would. He can only pray that he hasn't hurt Phil with his admission, because that's the very last thing that he wanted and the very last thing that the agent deserves.

"I understand," Phil says. "More than you think. I know I'm not who I was before, as much as I try to be. I know that when they brought me back, some pieces got left behind. I think I've recovered a few of those pieces and I know that some of them have been with your help but there are things that I wonder if I'll ever get back. I'm not going to begrudge you for mourning; not when I get so weighed down in self-pity that I end up doing the same."

Phil's hands curl into fists against Steve's chest.

"I'm damaged. I know that," he says quietly. "And I often ask myself why you would want that. I ask myself, what right do I have to think that should be enough for you?"

"It's enough," Steve whispers. "Phil, it's more than enough."

This isn't a case of taking what he can get. This isn't settling. He will love Phil to his last, damage and all, and it will always be enough. And in time, he knows the mourning will fade. The sense of loss will dwindle. The man is his arms may never be truly whole again, but neither will Steve, so maybe it's only right that they be together in that.


	14. Nurse Me

**A/N:** Skyrim!AU ahead! You don't need to have played the game to be able to read this one, but it certainly makes it more fun.

* * *

"You need to stop and you need to sit. Now."

Steve is surprised by the harshness of the shorter Imperial's words, but he doesn't argue. Using his shield as support, he gently lowers himself to the floor of the cave. With his back propped up against a large stone, he watches Phil gather wood and assemble it at the center of the cave. A quick fire spell later and there's a roaring flame before them, which begins to warm Steve even from a distance.

"Come on," Phil says, holding out his hands. "Let's get you closer."

Steve bites his lip and suppresses any noise as Phil hauls him up; it's certainly not doing his injuries any favors. Still, the inviting warmth as they draw nearer is well worth it, and sitting on a bedroll is much nicer than the cold, stone floor. He's barely been seated again before Phil's hands are on him, unclasping his armor, carefully placing it all aside. Then those sure, steady hands are on him, assessing the damage.

"Talos' sake, this is deep," Phil says, frowning heavily as his fingers gently probe the gash in Steve's right side.

"Feels it," Steve admits with a grunt.

"If I'd known it was this bad… Never mind. Alright, let's get to it then. Try to relax," Phil encourages him.

Steve's never been the best at Restoration spells, so he supposes he's lucky that Phil has quite the knack for them. This particular spell usually manifests itself in a golden glow, but ever since Phil had come back, its color had changed for him. Phil's hands hover over his wound, that silver-blue light transferring off the other man's hands and onto Steve's body. Steve sighs, eyes falling shut at the sensation. Already he feels the pain beginning to ebb away as a feeling of relaxation enters him. There are other people out there more adept at healing that Phil is, there are healers out there who have devoted their lives to the art of Restoration, but Steve would rather have Phil any day.

The sensation of Phil's hands on him, he can understand the intimacy in that, but it's even come down to his magic. Blindfolded, Steve would be able to differentiate between Phil's magic and anyone else's. Perhaps it's due to all they'd been through together, perhaps it's their bond as partners—which they had recently cemented in matrimony—but whatever it is, Phil's magic has adapted to Steve. It had bonded to him, morphed into something else. Phil's magic is soft and intimate, a gentle caress.

"Dovahkiin or not, you're not invincible," Phil murmurs.

Steve hums, eyes still shut. "No. But someone had to get in there."

"Right, but could you do me a favor and maybe _not_ forget to watch your own back?" Phil questions.

"Look who's talking," Steve mumbles.

Phil doesn't answer that. Steve feels the magic shift, a pleasant tingle running down his spine as he's eased into a deeper state of relaxation, one that's almost trace-like. He sighs slowly, resting his full weight against the rock behind him.

"Can you feel it mending?" Phil asks.

He nods his head.

"Any discomfort?"

He gives a lazy shake of his head. "Feels good."

"Steve, I need you to stay awake for a little while longer," Phil says, his tone firm but not unkind. "You lost a lot of blood. I need you to open your eyes for me."

Steve would really much rather be allowed to drift off in peace, but he knows it's important. If Phil says it's important, it's important. So he complies, after a short time, and manages to pry his eyes open. It takes a moment for his vision to clear, but focusing on Phil helps. He always likes watching the other man work, he enjoys the look of concentration on his face, the silvery-blue light of his own magic reflecting in his eyes. They're almost the same color, aren't they? Then those eyes are on him and Phil smiles, the wrinkles on his forehead smoothing out with the action.

"You'll be alright," he says.

"Never doubted it," Steve answers groggily.

Phil smiles again, taking one hand away from his task to reach up and brush the soldier's hair from his face. Steve turns his head, pressing his face to the shorter man's palm and kissing the wedding band on his finger. Phil's hand shifts, his thumb brushes Steve's cheek, before returning to hovering over his wound.

"I'm going to keep working, but you're through the worst of it," Phil tells him. "It's okay to sleep now."

"I can stay awake," Steve says, even as he shuts his eyes again.

He must have dozed off at some point, because he startles when a hand touches his face and he opens his eyes, blinking rapidly in the dim light. The sun has gone down, and from the cave mouth he can see Masser and Secunda floating amidst a sky full of stars.

"You were out for a few hours," Phil explains, helping him sit up. He presses a glass vial into Steve's hands. "Sip on this."

Steve nods, doing so without hesitation. The taste immediately tells him the potion is one of Jemma's—the young alchemist has a habit of trying to mask the bitter taste that tends to come with these concoctions with various herbs and flowers. Even after a few sips he's feeling refreshed, enough to examine his injuries. Or where his injuries had been. Phil is very thorough in his work, so that what had been a rather deep wound in his side is now simply slightly discolored; the pink of new, healing skin.

He lifts his gaze, finding his fellow Imperial stirring the contents of the pot suspended over the open flame of their fire. For a time he says nothing, content to watch. Phil is something of an anomaly. After Steve's Awakening, the Imperial had been eager to help him readjust. It turned out Phil was something of a fan of his, having grown up hearing tales of the Dovahkiin from his Nord mother. They were alike in that fashion, having one Imperial parent and one Nord. Phil was, and is, one of the last of the Blades, meant to guide, serve and protect the Dragonborn.

In any case, Steve's Awakening seemed to be aptly timed, for shortly after came Alduin's return. They had banded together an unlikely group of heroes to combat this threat, but they hadn't exactly seen eye to eye on everything. That had changed when the dragon and his mortal accomplice—who had turned out to be Thor's adoptive brother, Loki—had attacked. Attacked when they were too busy fighting each other. Attacked when Phil had been the only one around to intercept them.

And Phil had died. By all rights, he should have stayed that way, but when Steve had used the Elder Scroll to chase Alduin and Loki to Sovngarde, he certainly hadn't expected to find Phil there. And when Alduin attempted to swallow him, Steve certainly hadn't expected Phil to be able to do something as outrageous as choke The World Eater. And lastly, Steve had never once thought he could do something so preposterous as steal Phil's soul from the afterlife and take it back with him to Nirn.

But it had worked. Phil had been dead for less than twenty-four hours when Steve had returned with the Black Soul Gem that carried him. It was the stuff of fairytales, invading the afterlife to reclaim someone's soul, but in the end it had worked. Somehow, he came back. With no little thanks to some of the most gifted magic users on the planet, they were able to return his soul to his body and restore his life.

Needless to say, sharing that kind of experience does something to bind you together. After months of courting and continued adventures, Phil had done Steve the honor of agreeing to be his husband. They'd been wed a little over a month now and not a day went by that Steve didn't marvel at how truly incredible it was that they'd gotten the chance at all.

"You alright over there?" Phil asks him.

"Fine," Steve says, rising to move closer to him. "Better now."

He sits beside the shorter man, making a soft, dissatisfied noise once he gets a good look at him.

"You, on the other hand, look exhausted," Steve says.

Phil shakes his head. "Just a little tired. I didn't expect to need to work on you as long as I did."

Part of him hates this, that he has to take away from Phil like this when he's injured. But another part of him can't help but feel touched every time he does. Because Phil would give everything if it meant saving him; a thought that both moves and terrifies him.

"I wish you wouldn't push yourself like that," Steve says, laying a hand on his back.

"Oh, sure," Phil says with a nod. "I'll just let you bleed out next time."

"Funny," Steve says. He leans forward, curling an arm around the other man's waist and pulling him back, much to Phil's protest as the spoon nearly falls into their dinner. "I mean it. Because you can joke about it all you like, but one day you'll push too far and I'll wake up without you. And I'm pretty sure that whole stealing your soul out of Sovngarde trick only works once."

"I've told you before not to worry," Phil says. "The way I see it, I've got a second chance that very few people get. By all rights, I should have stayed dead. I'm going to have to go again someday, and the way I see it, keeping you alive is about the best way to go that I can think of."

Steve frowns. "You know I hate it when you talk like that."

"Relax," Phil says, patting his hand. "I'm sure we've got many years of you running off and doing stupid things to look forward to."

"Well, hey, who said it was stupid?" Steve asks.

"I did. Just now. Were you not listening?" Phil asks with a completely straight face.

Steve snorts.

"Now, how long are you planning on holding me captive?" Phil asks, motioning to Steve's arms wrapped tight around his middle. "Because our dinner is going to burn if I sit here any longer."

"Mm. Maybe I'm okay with letting it burn," Steve says, kissing his neck.

"You say that now, but when we move out tomorrow you'll be complaining about doing it on an empty stomach," Phil points out.

"You make a compelling argument," Steve says, nodding in agreement. "But after dinner, I've got plans for you."

"You've got plans for sleep," Phil corrects him.

"Now who's the one who's not listening?" Steve says.

"You don't need sex, you need sleep," Phil says with a patient smile, finally extracting himself from Steve's grasp. "You're going to eat something, I'm going to make some tea, then I'm going to clean you up, give you a massage and you're going to sleep."

Steve makes a thoughtful noise.

"Make no mistake, as soon as we're back in Whiterun and you're fully recovered from this mission, we're locking ourselves in the bedroom for the foreseeable future," Phil assures him.

"Thank the Nine you married me," Steve sighs.

"Thank yourself," Phil says, shooting him a soft smile. "I wouldn't be here without you."

Steve doesn't have the words to say what he feels, so he just smiles back and lets Phil finish. They follow Phil's plan and some point during the massage, Steve is out like a light; only proving the other man's point that he wasn't up for sex to begin with. He wakes when the sky is just barely light and their fire has begun to grow small with Phil tucked against him. He sighs and kisses the top of the other man's head, causing his husband to stir.

"Everything okay?" Phil murmurs, clearly closer to sleep than being awake.

"Fine. Go back to sleep," Steve whispers.

Phil hums something in recognition, tucking his head to Steve's chest and quickly returning to sleep. Steve lies awake, just focusing on this, on this moment. Phil's magic had healed his wounds, yes, but it's moments like these that heal the rest of him. For a man lost to time, frozen for hundreds of years in ice by a cruel spell, these moments heal him more fully than any magic could hope to. They are men of second chances, bound together by fate, and he fully intends to take every minute that he can get with no regrets.


End file.
